“He says he owes you money, and that you threaten to ruin him. Is that so?”
“Upon my word, if you want to know, it is.”
“How much is it, please?”
Ratman laughed.
“Nothing. A trifle. Fifteen hundred pounds or thereabouts.”
“Fifteen hundred!” faltered she. “Does he owe you all that.”
The little she had to offer was a drop in the bucket only.
“Look here,” said he; “Miss Rosy, your father’s in a fix. I don’t want to be hard on him, but I must have my money or its equivalent. Now, I should consider it a very fair equivalent to be allowed to call him father-in-law. I may not be up to your mark in some things, Miss Rosalind, but I’ve a good name, and I flatter myself I know beauty when I see it. Now, think over it. It’s the only chance your father’s got, and you might do worse for yourself than become the mistress of Maxfield. Good-bye. Shake hands.”
She drew herself up with an air and a flush of colour which redoubled his admiration, and without a word, turned away with rapid steps.
Mr Ratman was sorely tempted to follow this beautiful creature, who, in all his chequered career, had been the only human being to discover the few last dregs of affection in his nature. As much as it was possible in such a man, he was in love with this debtor’s daughter. The sensation was novel and exhilarating enough to afford him food for cheerful reflection as he walked on towards the station.