He paused. The speech was a lengthy one, and lengthy speeches mostly exhausted Mr. Stuart. He lay back, watching his fair relative as she sat sewing near, with lazy, half-closed eyes.
Her work dropped in her lap, a faint flush rose up over her dusk face.
"Charley," she responded, gravely, "I don't wonder you say this—it is true, and nobody feels it more than I. I am a disagreeable creature, a selfish nuisance, an idle, discontented kill-joy. I only wonder, you are not afraid to take me with you at all."
Mr. Stuart sat up, rather surprised.
"My dearest coz, don't be so tremendously in earnest. If I had thought you were going to take it seriously—"
"Let us be serious for once—we have all our lives left for quarrelling," said Miss Darrell, as though quarrelling were a pleasant recreation. "I sit down and try to think sometimes why I am so miserable—so wretched in my present life, why I hail the prospect of a new one with such delight. I see other girls—nicer, cleverer girls than I am every way, and their lives suffice for them—the daily, domestic routine that is most horrible drudgery to me, pleases and satisfies them. It must be that I have an incapacity for life; I daresay when the novelty and gloss wear off, I shall tire equally of the life I am going to. A new dress, a dance, a beau, and the hope of a prospective husband suffices for the girls I speak of. For me—none of your sarcastic smiles, sir—the thought of a future husband is—"
"Only vanity and vexation of spirit. But there is a future husband.
You are forced to admit that, Dithy. I wonder what he is to be like?
A modern Sir Launcelot, with the beauty of all the gods, the courage
of a Coeur de Lion, the bow of a Chesterfield, and the purse of
Fortunatus. That's the photo, isn't it?"
"No, sir—not a bit like it. The purse of a Fortunatus, if you like—I ask nothing more. The Sir Launcelots of life, if they exist at all, are mostly poor men, and I don't want anything to do with poor men. My marriage is to be a purely business transaction—I settled that long ago. He may have the form and face of a Satyr; he may have seventy years, so that he be worth a million or so, I will drop my best courtesy when he asks, and say, 'Yes, and thanky, sir.' If the Apollo himself, knelt before me with an empty purse, I should turn my back upon him in pity and disdain."
"Is that meant for me, Edie?" Mr. Stuart inquired, rising on his elbow, and admiringly gazing at his own handsome face in the glass. "Because if it is, don't excite yourself. Forewarned is forearmed—I'm not going to ask you."
"I never thought you were," Edith said, laughing. "I never aspired so high. As well love some bright particular star, etcetera, etcetera, as the only son of James Stuart, Esquire, lineal descendant of the Princes of Scotland, and banker of Wall Street. No, Charley, I know what you will do. You'll drift through life for the next three or four years, as you have drifted up to the present, well looking, well dressed, well mannered, and then some day your father will come to you and say gruffly, 'Charles!' (Edith grows dramatic as she narrates—it is a husky masculine voice that speaks:) 'Here's Miss Petroleum's father, with a million and a half—only child—order a suit of new clothes and go and ask her to marry you!' And you will look at him with a helpless sigh, and go. Your father will select your wife, sir, and you'll take her, like a good boy, when you're told. I shouldn't wonder now, but that it is to select a wife for you, and a husband for Trixy, he is taking this projected trip to Europe."