Saunders snapped his fingers impulsively, tossed his head, started to speak, but remained silent.
"Why did you—do that?" Mostyn demanded, yielding to irritation against his will.
"Oh, there is no use going into it," Saunders said, sharply, "but if you think ten thousand dollars will stop a creature of that stamp, your long experience with such women has not taught you much. She will dog you to the end of her days."
"I don't think so, Jarvis." Mostyn seldom used Saunders's Christian name, and it came out now in a tone of all but insistent conciliation. "By giving her the money just now I rendered her a peculiar service. She wanted it to save her brother from arrest and disgrace."
"And you think that will silence her permanently? Well, it won't. You will hear from her again, if I am any sort of judge."
"You take a gloomy view of it," Mostyn protested. "In fact, I don't exactly know how to make you out to-day. You seem different. Surely you don't oppose my—my marriage?"
"Not in the slightest. I have scarcely thought of it."
"Well, then, what is the matter?"
The sudden set silence after such a demand showed plainly that the question was well-timed. Mostyn repeated it less urgently, but he repeated it.
"I have just got back from my plantation"—Saunders glanced at the closed door furtively—"and while I was there I heard some slight gossip about your attentions to my little friend Dolly Drake. You know mountain people, Mostyn, usually make as much as possible of such things. The truth is, some have gone so far as to say that you and she were likely to marry."