Fanny patted a yawn. “Listening to sweet nothings.”
“From him? Why, he hasn’t anything, has he? What did you do?”
Fanny patted another yawn or else another sigh. “I fell on his neck and sobbed for joy.”
“Nonsense. Has he anything, tell me?”
“Not enough to entertain on. Twenty-five thousand a year, I think.”
“The impertinence of it!” said the lady.
Had her daughter been an heiress a duke would hardly have satisfied her. As things were, or more exactly, since the girl began to grow in beauty she had dreamed for her but one dream—a brilliant match. To Mrs. Price there could be no brilliance if the party of the second part had a dollar less than ten million.
“You might have had Loftus,” she declared at last. “Where is he, do you know?”
“Abroad, I hear.”
“With that creature?”
Mrs. Price in common with many others had heard of Marie Leroy. But though others in hearing had not heeded, Mrs. Price took it as a personal affront.
“Then it is your fault,” she snarled. “You could have had him if you had wanted. Don’t tell me. He was in love with you. I could see it.”
Fanny was looking at the ocean. A white sail was fainting in the distance. Like it, a hope she had had was fading away. She watched it go. It had been very fair, very dear, more dear and fair than any she had known. But