“To do what?”
“To get married again!”
The wife of twelve months started, as if struck by a shot. In her glance there was anger and surprise, only subdued by interrogation.
“Are you in earnest, Dick?”
The inquiry was mechanical. She saw that he was.
“Wait till you’ve heard me out,” he rejoined, proceeding to the explanation.
She waited.
“What I propose, then, is this: You leave me free to get married again. More than that, give me your help to accomplish it—for our mutual benefit. It’s the very country for such a scheme; and I flatter myself I’m the very man who may bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. These Yankees have been growing rich. There are now scores—hundreds of heiresses among them. Strange if I can’t pick one of them up! They must either be daintier than you, Fan, or else I’ve lost my attractions.”
The appeal to her vanity, skilful though it was, failed to elicit a rejoinder. She remained silent, permitting her husband to continue his explanation. He continued:
“It’s no use shutting our eyes to the situation. We’ve both been speaking the truth. We’ve made fools of ourselves. Your beauty has been the means of spoiling my chances in life; and my—well, good looks, if I must say it—have done the same for you. It’s been a mutual love, and a reciprocal ruin—in short, a sell on both sides.”