them there had been no white flag. Fearlessness. It was to them that she must look for help in this tense moment, not to the red-coated grandfather above the fireplace.
Spiritual strength! The sword and buckler of her belief in herself! She had an almost physical sense of contest and of clamour, although until Winslow spoke there was not a sound.
"Well?" that was all. Just that sinister mono-syllable without a trace of emotion.
"I can't marry you, Neale."
His face did not change. "Have you considered the advantages?"
"I can't see any advantages."
"I am offering you everything."
"You are offering me your—pocketbook."
It seemed to her that the words went off with a sharp report like a gun, hitting the walls and reverberating up to the ceiling. She had a sense of exhilaration, hot blood was in her cheeks, her eyes held leaping fires.
She was a gallant little figure. Fighting. With her back to the wall. Winslow, even in the midst of his exasperation, was keenly aware of her warmth and ardor. What a fool he had been from the first not to choose Hildegarde. The child was enchanting!
His voice was persuasive. "I am offering you more than my pocketbook."
"Yet if I married you it would be because of your money. You know that, Neale."
He did know it, and raged because of the truth of it. Was there nothing in him that would win what he
