“A fat Lohengrin,” she amended, maliciously.
Unaware of this devastating estimate, Frederick welcomed her with the air of a Cophetua. He was unconscious of his attitude of condescension. He was much attracted, but he knew, of course, that his interest in her would be a great thing for the little girl.
And he was interested. A queer thing had happened to him—a thing which clashed with all his theories, broke down the logic of his previous arguments. He had fallen in love with little Jane Barnes, at first sight if you please—like a crude boy. And he wanted her for his wife. It was an almost unbelievable situation. There had been so many women he might have married. Lovelier women than Jane, wittier, more distinguished, richer—of more assured social standing. He could have had the pick of them, yet not one of them had he wanted. Here was little Jane Barnes, bobbed hair, boyish, slender, quaint in her cheap clothes, and he could see no one else at the head of his table, no one else by his side in the big car, no one else to share the glamorous days of honeymoon, and the life which was to follow.
He had always had his own way, and he intended to have it now. Edith had, of course, thwarted him in some things, and she was still on his hands. Yet the matter would, without doubt, right itself. There were other eligible suitors; it was not to be supposed that a beauty and an heiress would remain long unwed.
And in the meantime, he would set himself to the wooing of Jane. The end was, of course, inevitable. But Jane would not fall into his arms at the first word. Her attitude towards him was absolutely impersonal. She had no blushes, no small flirtatious tricks. She was as cool as some lovely garden flower with the morning dew upon it. But he fancied she might flame.
And so when young Baldwin had telephoned of Edith’s plans, there had leaped into Towne’s mind the realization of his opportunity. He would see Jane among his household gods. And he would see her alone. He had sent Briggs in time to have her there before the others arrived.
And now Fate had played further into his hands. “I’ve had another message from Edith,” he told her; “we’ll have to eat dinner without them. The fog caught them south of Alexandria, and they went into a ditch. They will eat at the nearest hotel while the car is being fixed up.”
“Baldy’s car always breaks at psychological moments,” said Jane. “If it hadn’t broken down on the bridge, he wouldn’t have found your niece.”
“And I wouldn’t have known you”—he was smiling at her. “Who would ever have believed that so much hung on so little.”
And now Waldron, the butler, announced dinner—and Jane entering the dining-room felt dwarfed by the Gargantuan tables, the high-backed ecclesiastical chairs, the tall silver candlesticks with their orange candles.