Mr. Perry's jaws grew red as his beard. "How can I
tell?" he said gruffly. He went on irritably, a moment
later: "Of course you see it. The fellow has no
delicacy. He makes no more secret of his plans than if
he were going to run down a rabbit. Last night at
Stirling, over his beer, he held forth upon the dimples
on Miss Dunbar's pink elbows, and asked me if her hair
were all her own. I said, at last, that American men did
not value women like sheep by their flesh and fleece and
the money they were rated at in the market. I hit him
square that time, prince or no prince!"
"Yes, you did, indeed," said Jean vaguely. Her keen eyes
followed Lucy and the prince, who were loitering through
the gallery, pausing before the faded portraits. "You
think it is only her money that draws him after us?"
"Why, of course! A fellow like that could not appreciate
Miss Dunbar's beauty and wit."
"You think Lucy witty?" said Jean dryly. "And you think
she would not marry for a title?"
"I don't believe any pure American girl would sell
herself, like a sheep in the shambles! And she is
pure! A lamb, a lily! cried Perry, growing incoherent in
his heat.
"She would not if her heart were preoccupied," said Jean
thoughtfully.
"And you think----" he said breathlessly.
But Jean only laughed, and said no more.
The guide had been paying profound deference to Prince
Wolfburgh, keeping close to his heels. Now he swung open
a door.
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