"And have you no American women who could match your paragons, your American _tradesmen_?" he asked, contemptuously. "Oh, yes," she replied. "We have fine and noble American women. I was just thinking how the Old World could be invigorated by the infusion of fresh blood from the vital, progressive New World. Just think of a brainy, womanly Lady Somebody of England, refusing to ally herself with an inane, worthless nobleman of any country, and deliberately _choosing_ a man of the people here, a man whose achievements have made him great! Is there not a college of heraldry somewhere that places intellect and character and achievement above rank and fortune?" He could not fathom her. "How queer you are, Miss Bright! Such marriages," he continued, in a tone of disgust, "would not be tolerated." "Why not? They would be on a higher plane than the ones you boast of. You exploit the marriage of title and money. I suggest, as an advance upon that, the marriage of the highest type of the noblewoman of the Old World, with no fortune but her intellect, her character, and her fine breeding, with the highest type of noble manhood in America, a man large enough and great enough to direct the progress of the world." "Ally the daughters of our nobility with plebeian Americans?--with working men?" "Why not?" she asked. "Because we despise people in trades," he said, contemptuously. "But the tradesmen who _make_ the fortunes are quite as good as their daughters, who barter themselves and their fathers' wealth for titles. You seem to approve of such alliances." They had reached the veranda of the Clayton home. Esther Bright's hand was on the door knob, and her companion took his leave. How radical she must seem to him! As she entered her own room, she found a letter bearing a London postmark. It was the first letter she had received from Kenneth Hastings, and it was a long one. She read it through, and then reread it, and buried her face in her arms on the table. After awhile there came a knock on the door. It was Carla. She had been crying. Esther slipped an arm about her, and together they sat on the edge of the bed. "What is the matter, Carla?" she asked gently. "Oh, I am so unhappy!" "Has anyone hurt your feelings, dear?" "Oh, no. It is not that. It is the other. I wish I could die!" Esther drew Carla to her. "You still care for Mr. Clifton; is that it?" "Yes," she answered, with a sob, "that is it. I am _so_ unhappy!" "Tell me all about it, Carla," said Esther, in a soothing tone. "Perhaps it will be a relief for you to tell me. When a load is shared it grows lighter." "Well, you see, Papa and Mamma died, and I had no one but distant kindred. They gave me a home, and I became a sort of servant in the family. Mark Clifton was their nephew. He seemed to love me, and he was the only one who did. He talked often of the home we'd have when we are married, as I told you.