Loftus, his wonderful eyes looking deep into hers, answered quickly and sweetly, “I would beg you to be my wife.”
Fanny straightened herself. “Then give that girl her congé, give her a dot too, send her abroad and let her marry some count.”
“Very good, I will do so.”
“When you have,” said Fanny, “I will ask Arthur for a divorce.”
“What?” And Loftus, with those wonderful eyes, stared in surprise. He was in for it, let in for it, was his first impression. Yet at once, on looking back, he realized that Fanny was incapable of trick of any kind. “But,” he objected, “supposing he refuses?”
“Then I will apply.”
“But you can’t, you see. He is good as gold.”
“Oh, I don’t mean here. I mean out West.”
For a moment Loftus said nothing. Even in the West, he reflected, divorce took time. Yet then, reflecting, too, that it would be very gentlemanly of Annandale were he to go there and leave the coast free for him, he smiled and remarked, with what seemed astounding inappositeness, “I have been selling short.”
“Ah!” said Fanny longly. “And what of it?”
“Unless the market turns I shall be out, God knows how much!”
“But what of it?” Yet even as she spoke she understood. “Fiddlesticks!” she exclaimed with a gesture of annoyance. “I shan’t care if you haven’t two cents.”
To this Loftus had no chance to reply. Annandale came lounging in.