“It was as well he did not live, poor fellow, for her as well as for himself, though I should certainly, myself, have preferred it; for then we should have had none of this fuss, either of anticipation or disappointment—and no trial, and no costs; and no useless baronetcy that brings in nothing.”
“Don’t say that; your father likes it, and so will you in your day.”
“My father likes to be head of the family, and so shall I. We’ll have our first quarrel, Meg, over that little hussy, then.”
“Not our first quarrel by a great many,” she said, letting her hand rest for a moment on his arm. “But don’t call her names, Gerald: all alone in a hotel in London, in the middle of the season, without a creature to speak a word to her! And I heard she was perfectly alone all the winter at home. Lady Hartmore goes too far. She has made it a personal matter that nobody should call. Poor little Patty! Gerald——”
“Poor little Patty, indeed! who has cost us not only Greyshott, but how many thousand pounds; who has made you poor, Meg.”
“There is poor and poor. Poor in your way is not poor in mine. I am rich, whatever you may be. Is she still there—alone—Gerald, with that white little face?” Margaret had managed, furtively, to turn her head, still under shadow of the waiter, and get a glimpse of their supplanter.
“What does it matter if her face is white or not? She has chalked it, perhaps, as she might rouge it on another occasion, to play her part.”
“You have no pity,” said Margaret; “to me it is very sad to see a poor woman like that alone, trying to enjoy herself. I think, Gerald, I will——”
“Will what? You are capable of anything, Meg. I shall not be surprised at whatever you propose.”
“Well, since you have so poor an opinion of me,” she said with a smile, “I think I’ll speak to her, Gerald.”