“It is very dull living alone,” she exclaimed, with a little touch of melancholy in her voice. Then, with a laugh, she added, “To be perfectly frank, I should not object to you as my husband.”
“But is there not a barrier between us?” he exclaimed, quickly.
“Only Liane. And she can never marry you.”
“I love her. I cannot love you,” he answered. Her effort at coquetry sickened him.
“It is not a question of love,” she answered, coldly, toying with the fine marquise ring upon her white finger. “It is a question of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”
“Would either of us be one whit the better for it, even if we married?” he queried. “I think not. At present we are friends. If we married I should hate you.”
“Nevertheless I should obtain twenty thousand pounds,” she argued.
“Is it worth while to risk one’s future happiness for that?” he said.
“I have not yet sufficiently considered the matter,” she replied, with her eyes still fixed on him. “At present I’m inclined to think that it is. But I must have time to reflect. One cannot refuse such an offer without due consideration.”
“Then you are inclined to accept,” he observed, blankly.