It was the first time that he had ever had any occasion
to talk with Miss Hegan. He noticed her gentle
and caressing voice, with the least touch of the South
in it; and he was glad to find that it was possible
for her to talk without breaking the spell of her serene
and noble beauty. Montague stayed as long as he
had any right to stay.
And all the way as he rode home he was thinking about
Laura Hegan. Here for the first time was a woman
whom he felt he should like to know; a woman with
reserve and dignity, and some ideas in her life.
And it was impossible for him to know her—because
she was rich!
There was no dodging this fact—Montague
did not even try. He had met women with fortunes
already, and he knew how they felt about themselves,
and how the rest of the world felt about them.
They might wish in their hearts to be something else
besides the keepers of a treasure-chest, but their
wishes were futile; the money went with them, and
they had to defend it against all comers. Montague
recalled one heiress after another—debutantes,
some of them, exquisite and delicate as butterflies—but
under the surface as hard as chain-armour. All
their lives they had been trained to think of themselves
as representing money, and of every one who came near
them as adventurers seeking money. In every word
they uttered, in every glance and motion, one might
read this meaning. And then he thought of Laura
Hegan, with the fortune she would inherit; and he
pictured what her life must be—the toadies
and parasites and flatterers who would lay siege to
her—the scheming mammas and the affectionate
sisters and cousins who would plot to gain her confidence!
For a man who was poor, and who meant to keep his
self-respect, was there any possible conclusion except
that she was entirely unknowable to him?
Montague came back to the city, and dug into his books
again; while Alice gave her spare hours to watching
the progress of the new gown in which she was to uphold
the honour of the family at Mrs. Devon’s opening
ball. The great event was due in the next week
and Society was as much excited about it as a family
of children before Christmas. All whom Montague
met were invited and all were going unless they happened
to be in mourning. Their gossip was all of the
disappointed ones, and their bitterness and heartburning.
Mrs. Devon’s mansion was thrown open early on
the eventful evening, but few would come until midnight.
It was the fashion to attend the Opera first, and
previous to that half a dozen people would give big
dinners. He was a fortunate person who did not
hear from his liver after this occasion; for at one
o’clock came Mrs. Devon’s massive supper,
and then again at four o’clock another supper.
To prepare these repasts a dozen extra chefs had been
imported into the Devon establishment for a week—for
it was part of the great lady’s pride to permit
no outside caterer to prepare anything for her guests.
