“How can I help it? Such a horrible, horrible story--and the poor body lying there still--hardly your own age, Richard. ... This man!--it makes me ill to think I have spoken to him--touched him in passing, perhaps. What are you going to do?” “What does that matter to you, cry-baby?” “I thought we were married, Richard. Make me shut my eyes again.” “No, keep them open. You put me in such an ecstasy. What ought I to do?” “I don’t think you ought to do anything. It is Uncle Charlie’s business.” “Well, he just wants to pay the man to go away and hold his tongue, and, because I don’t see it in that light, has rather quarrelled with me.” “It is infamous. Why should you be expected to incur any risk or danger? Richard, don’t dare this dreadful man on your own account--O, don’t, Richard!” “I will be very careful. Shall I tell you what I had thought of doing?” “What?” “Going straight to Johnny Dando, and getting him to help me.” “Mr Dando, Richard! How could that funny little creature help you?” “Funny? Don’t you know that he is enormously rich?” “What difference does that make? His gilding only seems to show up his roundness, like one of grandpapa’s pills.” “Don’t talk of pills, miss, to a scion of the Skene family.” “I am very sorry.” “You have the curative principle in you, you little duck of a quack. Perhaps you have inherited it. I was very bad till I took you. Would you like a testimonial, dear? But seriously, there is no calculating what this business may cost me; and my savings don’t amount to much.” “Richard!” “Now, I know what you’re going to say. I will steal your heart, Ira; I will rob your lips, like a greedy boy in an orchard; I will thieve every bit of you else, but your money I won’t take. Think, if I touched it, in what a light it would seem to show me! No; Johnny put his wealth at my disposal once, and then I refused; but things have altered since. What was a speculation then, seems now a fairly promising investment. There’s only one objection.” “What is it, dear?” “Why, it would mean his helping me to you.” “Why is that an objection?” “Can’t you guess?” “No, indeed I can’t.” “He loves you too, Ira.” “Nonsense, Richard.” “He does, really and truly.” “Then, if he does, he’ll want to make me happy.” O, the poignant, lovely inhumanity of women! “Will he?” I said. “Well, to do him justice, I believe he would. But, supposing it were the other way about, and I was the rich one, and you and he were engaged and he wanted my help?” “Then it would be very unwise of him to ask it, for I should fall in love with you, of course.” “And now, I suppose, if he helps me, you’ll fall in love with him?” “O, Richard! how absurd you are! Can’t you see, dear? And they call women illogical.” “Never mind about that, Ira. You’re a very much abused sex, by all who don’t know you. Well, you think I’m justified in going to Johnny?”