‘I don’t care for that—yes, I do care; for a great name would mean a great deal of money, and I want that?
‘Indeed! Why?’
‘Because Mr. White is poor, and I want to make him rich—as rich as he deserves to be, for all his goodness to me. I love him so much. I should like to put him in a palace and surround him with splendour, like a king in a fairy tale.’
Forster laughed merrily.
‘I don’t think White would care for a palace, and he’s too Bohemian for a king.’
‘What do you mean by Bohemian?’ asked Madeline, with her characteristic frankness. ‘I often hear the word, and I don’t understand it.’
‘I’m not sure that I do either,’ he answered at once, ‘unless it means unconventionality, carelessness of appearances, contempt for Mrs. Grundy. In White’s case, though, it means far more—honesty, lightness of heart, patience under disappointment, all combined in one of the best fellows in the world.’
‘If you knew all about him, Mr. Forster, you would say even more than that. If you knew—if you knew—but no one will ever know but God! Oh, I should die if he even thought me ungrateful—he is so good. I have no other friend in all the world!’
‘Do not cry; you have one other.’
‘No.’