Beauty didn't answer; for of course that wasn't the real point; she was thinking about what she herself wanted right now. After a while Lanny ventured, in a low voice: “Marcel will be so unhappy!”
“Marcel has his art, dear. He's perfectly content to live in a hut and paint pictures all day.”
“Maybe he is, so long as you are there. But doesn't he miss you right now?”
“Are you so fond of him, Lanny?”
“I thought that was what you wanted!” the boy burst out. “I thought that was the way to be fair to you!”
“It was, dear; and it was sweet. I appreciate it more than I've ever told you. But there are circumstances that I cannot control.”
There was a pause, and the mother began to talk about Harry Murchison again. He had been in love with her for quite a while, and had been begging her to marry him; his love was a true and unselfish one. He was an unusually fine man, and could offer her things that others couldn't — not merely his money, but protection, and help in managing her affairs, in dealing with other people, who so often took advantage of her trustfulness and her lack of business knowledge.
“Harry has a lovely home in Pennsylvania, and we can go there to live, or we can travel — whatever we please. He's prepared to do everything he can for you; you can go to school if you like, or have a tutor — you can take Mr. Elphinstone to America with you, if you wish.”
But Lanny didn't care anything about Mr. Elphinstone; he didn't care anything about America. He loved their home at Juan, the friends he had there and the things he did there. “Tell me, Beauty,” he persisted, “don't you love Marcel any more?”
“In a way,” she answered; “but” — then she stopped, embarrassed.