You will be terribly
rich."
She gazed at him, the storm in her breast subsiding a little.
"How rich?" she asked him, pouting.
He tried to give her some idea. She sighed. "It's dreadful! What shall I
do with it all!"
Then as her eyes still searched him, he saw them change--first to
soft--then wild. Her colour flamed. She moved farther from him, and tried
to put on a businesslike air.
"I want to ask a question."
"Ask it."
"Am I--am I as rich as any girl you would be likely to marry?"
"What an odd question! Do you think I want money?"
"I know you don't!" she said, with a wail. "That's what's so horrid! Why
can't you all leave me alone?"
Then recovering herself fiercely, she began again:
"In my country--in Italy--when two people are about equally rich--a man
and a girl--their relations go and talk to each other. They say, 'Will it
suit you?'--the man has so much--the girl has so much--they like each
other--and--wouldn't it do very well!"
She sprang up. Tatham had flushed. He looked at her in speechless
amazement. She stood opposite him, making herself as tall as she could,
her hands behind her.
"Lord Tatham--my mother is ill--my father is dead. You're not my guardian
yet--and I don't think I'll ever let you be! So there's nobody but me to
do it. I'm sorry--I know it's not quite right, quite--quite English.
Well, any way! Lord Tatham, you say I have a _dot_! So that's all right.
There's my hand. Will you marry me?"
She held it out.
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