"I am old enough to be mistress of my own actions," I answered quickly. "I shall certainly never marry for money."
"Because of Ernest—eh?"
"It is cruel, Ulrica, to taunt me like this!" I cried, bursting into tears. "Surely I've suffered enough! You do not suffer because, as you have said hundreds of times, you have no heart. Would that I had none! Love within me is not yet dead. Would to God it were! I might then be like you, cold and cynical, partaking of the pleasures of the world without a thought of its griefs. As I am, I must love. My love for that man is my very life! Without it I should die!"
"No, no, my dear," she said quickly, in kinder tones. "Don't cry, or your eyes will be a horrid sight to-morrow. Remember we're lunching over at Beaulieu with the Farnells. Come, dry your eyes and go to bed. I didn't mean anything, you know." And she drew down my head and kissed me tenderly on the brow.
I left her and went to my room, but her words rang constantly in my ears. The idea that the old millionaire had been attracted by me was a novel one. Surely that could not be possible. True, he had grown confidential enough to tell me things that were held secret from all his friends, yet I attributed this to his eccentricity.
No, it was surely not true that he was among my admirers. Through the dark hours of that night I thought it all over. Sometimes I saw in all that had occurred a disposition on his part to tell me some secret or other. He had been so preoccupied, and had so earnestly told me of the dull loneliness of his life, that colour was certainly lent to the theory that he looked upon me with affection. Yet, after all, I reasoned with myself that I could never in my life love a man of that age, and determined never to barter myself for money and position. I should even, if he told me the truth, be compelled to refuse his offer.
But the whole theory was ridiculous. It had been started by that lying, ill-natured woman for want of something else to gossip about. Why should I heed it? I liked him, it was true, but I could never love him—never!
Reader, you may think it strange that we two young women were wandering about the Continent together without any male relative. The truth is, that terrifying personage, so peculiarly British, known as Mrs. Grundy, is dead. It is her complete downfall in this age of emancipation, bicycles and bloomers, that more than anything else makes the modern spinster's lot, in many respects, an eminently attractive one.
We were discussing this over our coffee on the following morning, when Ulrica, referring to our conversation of the previous night, said:
"Formerly girls married in order to gain their social liberty; now they more often remain single to bring about that desirable consummation."