"C'est bien! There is many a slip. I don't believe she will ever be Mrs. Cavendish."
Mr. Blake stared at his friend; but that gentleman looked the very picture of calm composure.
"My dear Wyndham," Mr. Blake remarked, compassionately, "you are simply talking nonsense. I know you are very clever, and famous, and all that sort of thing, and brain is excellent in its way; but I tell you it has no chance against beauty."
"By which you would imply, I stand no chance against Captain Cavendish. Now, if you'll believe me, I am not so sure of that. I generally manage to accomplish whatever I set my heart upon; and I don't think—I really don't, old boy—that I shall fail in this. Besides, if it does come to beauty, I am not such a bad-looking fellow, in the main."
To say that Mr. Blake stared after hearing this speech would be but a feeble description of the open-mouthed-and-eyed gape with which he favored its deliverer. To do Mr. Wyndham justice, he was that phenomenon not often seen—a modest author. He never bored his enemy about "My last book, sir!" he never alluded to his literary labors at all, unless directly spoken to on the subject; and certainly had never before displayed any vanity. Therefore, Mr. Blake stared, not quite decided whether he had heard aright; and Mr. Wyndham, seeing the look, did what he did not often do, burst out laughing.
"My dear old Val," he cried, slapping him on the shoulder, "I have not lost my senses; so there is no need of that look. I should like to have a tall wife—small men always do, you know—with black eyes and two hundred thousand dollars; and I shall enter the lists with this fascinating Captain Cavendish, and bear off the prize if I can, in spite of his sword, and uniform, and handsome face. I think, on the whole, I shall make the young lady quite as good a husband as he."
"Well," said Mr. Blake, drawing a long breath, and appealing to the deep, "for cool impudence and self-conceit, Paul Wyndham hasn't his match in broad America. Here he comes from New York; and before he is a week in the place he talks of marrying the richest and handsomest girl it contains, as coolly as if he were Sultan of all Turkey, and she a Circassian slave. Yes, Mr. Wyndham, ask her, by all means, and when you get your conge, let me know—it will be one of the happiest days of my life."
"But I don't think I shall get my conge" persisted Paul Wyndham. "Do you know if she is in love with this Captain Cavendish?"
"I never asked her," responded Mr. Blake. "I leave that for Mr. Wyndham to ascertain."
"Because I don't think she is," went on his friend. "When she stood here a few minutes ago, you and the other young lady, Miss—what's her name?—were talking of the gallant captain, and she listened with a face of perfect indifference. I was watching her, and I don't think she cares about him."