“Yes--but if he were to try to marry d’Artois’s sister----” “I know. I understand,” said Beatrice impatiently. “I wish he were a _real_ somebody. Still, he probably comes of as good a family as we do.” She rose and faced her mother. “When I’m with him I’m ashamed of being so--so cheap. When I see him beside Peter I’d laugh at anybody who talked such snobbishness. But-- Oh, I’ve been so rottenly brought up! No wonder he won’t have me! If he knew me as I am he’d spurn me.” Her expression softened to loving tenderness. “No, he wouldn’t. He’s big and broad. He’d understand and sympathize--and try to help me to be worthy of him. And I will be!” Her mother looked at her with the uncertain expression one sees on the faces of the deaf when they are making pretense of having heard and understood. “You’re very queer, Beatrice,” said she. “Ain’t I, though!” exclaimed the girl. “I guess you were right a while ago. I guess I’m crazy.” “Don’t you think we’d better go abroad right away, instead of waiting till June?” “I’ve thought of that. But the idea of getting out of reach of him sets me wild. I’d not be able to stand it to Sandy Hook. I’d spring overboard and swim back to see what he was about.... Were you ever in love, mother?” “Of course,” replied Mrs. Richmond. “But I didn’t fall in love with a nobody with nothing--at least, a man with no prospects.” “Then you don’t know what _love_ is! Oh, it was delicious--caring about him--crazy about him--trembling all over if he spoke--shivering if he happened to look at me in that calm, big way of his--and that when I felt he might be little more than a tramp, for all I knew.” There was no sympathy in the mother’s face, nothing but plain aversion and dismay. Yet she dared not speak her opinion. She knew Beatrice. “I’m afraid he’s very artful, dear,” she ventured to say. “He seems to understand exactly how to lead you on.” “I don’t think so,” replied Beatrice. “I may be wrong. I often doubt. I’m like father--very suspicious by nature. Of course, it’s possible he is playing with me. If he is, why, it’s the most daring, splendid game a man ever played, and he deserves to win.... No, mother. He’s not playing with me. I tried to win him when he thought I was a poor nobody. It didn’t go. Then I thought he was holding back because he was poor; and I tried to win him by showing him what he would be getting. I’m still trying that. But it doesn’t seem to be working any better than the other.” “Beatrice, I’m amazed. What _must_ he think of you?” “Now, you know very well, mother, that a girl in my position has to do the courting if the man’s poor and has any self-respect. In fact, I’ve got a notion that the women, in any circumstances, do a lot more courting than is generally supposed.” “I don’t know how it is in this day,” said her mother stiffly. “But in _my_ day----” “You wouldn’t own up, mother dear,” laughed the girl. “And your manner is suspiciously like an attempt to hide guilt.”