“What?”
“Oh, all sorts of things, Kemp.”
“What's one of 'em?” asked Ferrall, looking around at her; but his wife only laughed.
“You don't mean she's throwing her flies at Siward—now that you've hooked Quarrier for her! I thought she'd played him to the gaff—”
“Please don't be coarse, Kemp,” said Mrs. Ferrall, sending her horse forward. Her husband spurred to her side, and without turning her head she continued: “Of course Sylvia won't be foolish. If they were only safely married; but Howard is such a pill—”
“What does Sylvia expect with Howard's millions? A man?”
Grace Ferrall drew bridle. “The curious thing is, Kemp, that she liked him.”
“Likes him?”
“No, liked him. I saw how it was; she took his silences for intellectual meditation, his gallery, his library, his smatterings for expressions of a cultivated personality. Then she remembered how close she came to running off with that cashiered Englishman, and that scared her into clutching the substantial in the shape of Howard.... Still, I wish I hadn't meddled.”
“Meddled how?”