a horse that you can ride, and you can dance with Meriweather and talk French with me."
Far back in his eyes was a spark of laughter. But she did not see it. The world was whirling about her. She was hot with resentment. She had come on a sacred errand, and he was talking about the color in her cheeks and what horse she should ride!
"Oh," she gasped, "do you think I'd stay?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know whether I can make it clear. But my mother loved you—to the very end. And because she loved you and because she loved me—she wanted to bring us together. Yet, when I come and tell you she is dead, you act as if I were giving you news from the morning paper—"
He interrupted her. "My dear child, I can't stand any more tragedy. Life at this moment for me isn't cakes and ale. I've been stabbed in the back by my friends and hooted at by my enemies. I'm not in a mood to be hurt by raked-up memories."
He was standing now with his foot on the low fender, his arm on the mantel-shelf. "I've lost everything I had. I'm head over heels in debt. This old house is my final refuge. And my back's to the wall."
It seemed to her incredible that he should talk like that. Poverty, in her mind, was associated with crushing physical effort and sordid surroundings. It had to do with scrubbing, and sweeping, and cooking three meals a day, and washing dishes, and bending one's back over the weeds in the garden.
And here was this elegant gentleman with a servant to bring delicious and delectable things on a silver tray,
