The only excuse for this rash young man is to be found in the fact that while he was feeding his strange guest with cake and wine she was feeding, with her beauty, the first fire of his first love. Love at first sight is all nonsense, we know—we who have come to forty year—but at twenty-one one does not somehow recognise it for the nonsense it is.
"But don't you know anyone in London?" he asked in a sensible postscript.
It was not yet so dark but that he could see the crimson flush on her face.
"Not know, she said. "Papa wouldn't like me to spoil my chances of knowing the right people with any foolishness like this. There's no one I could let know. You see, papa's so very rich, and at home they expect me to—to get acquainted with dukes and things—and—"
She stopped.
"American heiresses are expected to marry English dukes," he said, with a distinct physical pain at his heart.
"It wasn't I who said that," said the girl, smiling; "but that's so, anyhow." And then she sighed.
