Mrs. Sandford inwardly determined to return to her home, or at least
to go elsewhere in the city, so as not to be a burden to her
brother-in-law; but she remained silent. Mr. Sandford balanced his
knife, sliced his bread into figures, then hummed and beat a tattoo upon
the table,--sure indications of forgetfulness in one so scrupulous
as he. At length, with a bland voice, but a sharp, inquiring eye, he
said,--
"How is it about this painter, Marcia? Are you going to marry him?"
She looked fixedly, as she replied,--
"Why do you ask? You know I am going to marry him."
"Oh, it's settled, is it? You know, sister, you have had similar
intentions before,--several times, in fact,--intentions that haven't
come to much."
She did not answer further; a flush of anger came, then went, leaving
her pale face with a rather sterner expression.
"While I was prosperous, I was not disposed to be mercenary; though I
did think you were not worldly-wise. Now that I am destitute, you can
see that to marry a man not worth a dollar, and with a precarious
profession, is not what it would have been.
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