“Yes, I know. But that wonʼt do, Uncle Crad; you donʼt want to answer my question. What I want to know is a very simple thing. How much money have you got a year? You must have got a good deal. I know, because everybody says so, and because this is such a great place, as big as the palaces in Calcutta.”
“Really, Eoa, it is not usual for young people, especially young ladies, to ask such very point–blank questions.”
“Oh, I did not know that, and I canʼt see any harm in it. I know the English girls at Calcutta used to think of nothing else. But I am not a bit like them; it isnʼt that I care for the money a quarter so much as tamarinds; but I have a particular reason; and Iʼll find out in spite of you. Just you see if I donʼt, now.”
“A very particular reason, Eoa, for inquiring into my income! Why, what reason can you have?”
“Is it usual for old people, especially old gentlemen, to ask such very point–blank questions?”
Sir Cradock would have been very angry with any other person in the world for such a piece of impertinence; but Eoa gave such a smile of triumph at having caught him in his own net (as she thought), and looked so exquisite in her beauty, as she rose, and the firelight flashed on her; then she tossed her black hair over her shoulders, and gave him such a kiss (with all the spices of India in it) that the old man was at her mercy quite, and she could do exactly what she liked with him.
Oh, Mrs. Nowell Corklemore—so proud of having obtained at last an invitation to Nowelhurst, so confident that, once let in, you can wedge out all before you, like Alexanderʼs phalanx—call a halt, and shape your wiles, and look to belt and buckler, have every lance fresh set and burnished, every sword like a razor; for verily the fight is hard, when art does battle with nature.