“I am, to the extent of his work for me,—and no further.”
“I’ve yet to see any extent to his work,” sneered Gerty; “it seems to me that he doesn’t get anywhere.”
“Give him time,” Elsie retorted. “He’s only been on the case about a week. But, truly, Gert, I have faith in him. I believe he’ll find Kimball yet!”
“Well, I don’t. You may rest assured that whoever put Kim out of the way will keep him out till after your birthday. And I think, Elsie, you ought to decide what you’re going to do. It’s too awful for you to sit still, and let your birthday go by, without marrying anybody.”
“Far more awful to marry somebody you don’t care for. Look here, you and mother both married for love; why should I sacrifice myself for the greed of my family—”
“Oh, Elsie,” cried her mother, “what a way to put it!”
“It’s the truth,” said Elsie, doggedly, “and you two must admit it. You want me to marry just so you can continue to live here in luxury, and have no care about money matters.”
“I’m sure I think more of your welfare than my own,” insisted Mrs. Powell. “I want my child to secure the inheritance that was left to her.”
“At the cost of all my happiness in life!” stormed Elsie. “At the cost of a broken heart and a loveless marriage,—the saddest fate that can befall a woman!”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed Gerty. “Cut out the histrionics, Elsie. You’re too young to think your heart is for ever bound up in Kimball Webb. There are lots of men as good as he,—and if you’d never met him, you would have been entirely satisfied with Fenn Whiting,—who is really the finer man of the two.”