But Frothingham didn’t follow his impulse and her unconscious leading. “What am I thinking of?” he said to himself in the sharp struggle that was going on behind his impassive exterior. “I’m not that sort of blackguard--at least, not yet.” Then he drawled his answer to Mrs. Staunton: “I’m tremendously flattered, but really, I fear the young lady and I would never hit it off. I’ve no great fancy for marrying--never had. I’ve always thought it a poor business--one of the sort of things that are good for the women and children, you know, but not for the men.” Mrs. Staunton looked mild and humourous disapproval. “What is the world coming to? A man asked me the other day why all the nice women were married and all the nice men single. I hadn’t thought of it until he spoke. But I must say it’s true of my acquaintances.” “I hope you’ll let Mr. Allerton know he’s wrong,” said Frothingham. “I hate it that the poor girl’s had the screws put on her on my account.” “Certainly--I’ll tell him. But I’m sorry it’s not to be as we hoped.” She was studying him with a puzzled expression. She had heard from what she regarded as a thoroughly trustworthy source that he had come over especially to get him a rich wife. If that wasn’t his object, why was he wandering about here? Titled foreigners didn’t come to America except for the one thing of interest to them which America has--money. She could not understand his unbusiness-like conduct. He couldn’t understand it himself. “I always was an ass,” he thought. “Here am I, sinking straight to the bottom--or, what’s worse, the bottomless. Yet I’m squeamish about the kind of line that pulls me ashore. Yes--I’m an ass. Even Lillian, well as I knew her at Oxford, took me in a bit with her trumpery tricks to make a living. She completely foozled me--that is----” Did she “foozle” him? He couldn’t banish the doubt. And there was the incident of the horse--Lillian had nothing to do with that, yet it fitted in with her professions as to the spirit world. But hadn’t she as good as owned up by apologising for breaking it off between him and Cecilia? Perhaps she hadn’t meant that; perhaps she had meant she was sorry to be the medium for such a letter. “There was a lot of truth in that letter. And there must be something in witches and ghosts and all that, or the whole world wouldn’t believe in ’em. But what ghastly luck that Lillian should turn up after fifteen years--no, seventeen, by Jove! Gad, how she has gone off since she was bar-maid at the Golden Cross and the prettiest girl that walked the High Street.”