"Of course," Jones was saying, in reference, evidently, to what had gone before--"of course as millionaires go he is not first chop. Jerolomon could match him head or tail for all he has, and never miss it if he lost. Ten million, though, is a tidy sum--just enough to entertain on. A penny less and you are pinched. Why, you would be surprised--" "Has he any other children?" "Who? Dunellen? None that he has acknowledged." "Then his daughter will come in for it all." "That's what I said. When she does, she will probably hand it over to some man who wont know how to spend it. She's got a cousin--what's that beggar's name? However, he's a physician, makes a specialty of nervous diseases, I believe; good enough fellow in his way, but an everlasting bore--the sort of man you would avoid in a club, and trust your sister to. What the deuce _is_ his name?" "Well, what of him?" "Ah, yes. I fancy he wants to get married, and when he does, to entertain. He is very devoted." "But nowadays, barring royalty, no one ever marries a cousin." "Dear boy, you forget; it isn't every cousin that has ten million. When she has, the attempt is invariable." And Jones accentuated his remark with a nod. "Now," he continued, "what do you say to a look at the library? They have a superb edition of Kirschwasser in there, and a full set of the works of Chartreuse." The novelist had arisen; he was leaving the room, and Roland was about to follow him, when he noticed that Miss Dunellen was preparing to leave it too. Before she reached the hall he was at her side. There is this about the New York girl--her beauty is often bewildering, yet unless a husband catch her in the nick of time the bewilderment of that beauty fades. At sixteen Justine Dunellen had been enchanting, at twenty-three she was plain. Her face still retained its oval, but from it something had evaporated and gone. Her mouth, too, had altered. In place of the volatile brilliance of earlier years, it was drawn a little; it seemed resolute, and it also seemed subdued. But one feature had not changed: her eyes, which were of the color of snuff, enchanted still. They were large and clear, and when you looked in them you saw such possibilities of tenderness and sincerity that the escape of the transient was unregretted; you forgot the girl that had been, and loved the woman that was.