“I didn’t carry it off. It carried itself.”
“Are you sure it didn’t hurt?”
She smiled at him from beneath her big hat. “Not a bit.”
The box hedges in the garden were showing a hint of new green. There was a plum tree blooming prematurely. The sun made brown shadows along the river’s edge, and the wash of the waves from passing steamers went lip-lapping among the reeds and rushes.
The moment was ripe for romance. But Baldy almost feverishly kept the conversation away from serious things. They had talked seriously enough, God knew, the other night by Edith’s fire. He had seen her lonely in the thought of her future.
“When Uncle Fred marries I won’t stay here.”
He had yearned to take her in his arms, to tell her that against his heart she should never again know loneliness. But he had not dared. What had he to offer? A boy’s love. Against her gold.
He told himself with some bitterness that one fortune was enough in a family. Jane’s engagement had changed things for her brother. The antagonism which Baldy had always felt for Frederick was intensified. The thought of Towne’s money weighed heavily upon him. Jane had already placed herself under insuperable obligations. Even if she wished, she could not now shake herself free.
And Edith’s money? He and Jane living on the Towne millions? He wouldn’t have it.
So he talked of Jane. “She doesn’t want her engagement announced until she gets back. I think she’s right.”