"Oh—I wonder if there is any chance for poor old Osmond to get his money now?"
"Don't know, I am sure; I would try, if I were he. Did you have a letter from Mr. Fowler this morning?"
"Yes," answered Wyn, pulling it out of her pocket. "Very nice, as usual. Elsa is still abroad, with her aunts, but he is back at Lower House. It is very strange that Elsa doesn't write—I haven't heard from her for six weeks."
"It is making poor old Osmond very anxious—he looks quite haggard," said Jacqueline, resentfully. "I believe she is in love with this man the yacht belongs to."
"Oh, don't say such a thing, Jac!" cried Wyn, in a quick voice of pain, "it will simply drive Osmond out of his mind if any such thing happens. Poor boy! Just see what he has been doing—how superbly he has been painting since he had this hope, and how his things are selling! How the papers reviewed his 'Valley of Avilion' in the Institute. Why, Mr. Mills said there was scarcely a doubt of his being R.I. next year. If Elsa fails him, I don't believe he will ever paint another stroke."
Jacqueline stared at the fire.
"You see," she said, "the circumstances under which she met this man were so very romantic—so remarkably unusual. And, then, he seems to be a wealthy, dazzling sort of person—with a yacht and a German Schloss, and other fancy fixings of the same kind. I don't see, if you come to consider it fairly, how poor Osmond can have a chance against a man who can follow her to the world's end."
"Surely she's too young to be mercenary—girls of her age usually prefer the poor one!" cried Wyn, protestingly.
"Mercenary? Oh, it's not exactly mercenary; but she is dazzled. Here is a mysterious hero, who flashes suddenly upon her with a large staff of retainers to do his behests, and a magic yacht which glides in and out regardless of wind and tide, and a face like a Viking of the Middle Ages, if that picture of him in the Graphic is to be relied upon. He is a sort of Ragnar Lodbrog. If she declined his addresses, he would most probably set sail alone in his yacht, set fire to it, and be found by some Channel steamer in the act of burning himself to death, and shouting a battle-cry while the leaping flames encircled him. Now, poor Osmond can't compete with this sort of thing; he has no accessories of any kind to help him along."
"Jac, you are very ridiculous," said Wyn, unable to help laughing a little; but her laugh was not very hearty.