Chapter Four
1054 Words
We'll undoubtedly have all of the English nobility's connections in America very soon now, so why does he marry Dora? What about her money?
"I doubt it. I've heard great things about Basil Stanhope from a variety of sources. In St. Jude's, there are many girls who are wealthier than Dora. I hazard a guess that at least one of them would have wed him.
"You are in error. Do you believe that Jane Lewes, Margery Starey, or any other female from their order would wed a guy who earned only a few thousand dollars annually? And for such ladies to wed for love is beyond the bounds of their intelligence. Their belief is that a husband is a banker, not a partner worth loving and caring for. You are aware of Mr. Stanhope's potential as a banker.
Bryce Denning is obviously quite upset over his sister's apparent mesalliance.
If Mr. Stanhope is related to the English Stanhopes, he must be held accountable for the mesalliance.
In fact, the Denning family makes a show of having good ancestry, and Bryce said that his sister was "disgracing his family by her contemplated marriage."
His relatives! His grandfather was a tin tack manufacturer, lovely Ethel. Consider dropping the subject now that we have reached the grandfather of the Denning.
Content; I am getting a little tired with the Denning clan, as Dora puts it. I'm going to get ready for dinner right away.
Then Ruth stood up and surveyed the area with interest. It was exactly as she had envisioned it to be: the epitome of elegant comfort, warm and light with the scent of roses; a room with deep, large chairs; a place to relax and chat; and the final touch of perfect home freedom, a big mastiff who came in to see who had called after hearing the doorbell ring.
Paul was never really sure of what had happened that evening because everything was so lovely, so extraordinary, and so different from his typical life. When he arrived, he discovered that the gate was unlocked, but no one was visible inside. He then sprinted up the steps and onto the terrace. Was she deceiving him then, in the darkness and silence? No, she was standing by one of the
Through some thick curtains, he could just make out her form as she entered the room beyond the windows. That explains why the terrace didn't receive any light. Following them and abandoning them along the way, he eventually arrived in a room that was the furthest thing from a hotel as he could conceive. Although it may have had the typical brocade walls and gold furniture of the "best suite," her subtle taste and presence completely changed the room's image, making it seem special to him. There were also a ton of flowers, including enormous white roses, tuberoses, lilies of the valley, gardenias, and late violets. A large couch dominated one side of the room behind the fireplace, and the light was dim and shadowed. What a sofa! With pillows stacked high, it was wrapped in a tiger hide and was decorated with silver and gold embroidery. The cushions were unlike any he had ever seen before, right down to their shapes. Everything about it was new, odd, and entrancing.
The woman sat down on the couch after reaching it. She was still dressed in all black, but it was a gauzy, clinging black that appeared to have a hint of purple below. And if he hadn't been certain that he had mistakenly believed they were green in the light, he would have said the eyes that were now staring into his were the deepest shade of violet.
"Come," she commanded. "You may sit here next to me and share your thoughts with me."
And although she rarely had an accent, her voice was like rich melody. He intuitively realized that she was not an Englishwoman, even though she might have come close to being one. Maybe she said everything clearly; nothing was muddled. She appeared younger and perhaps more lovely without her helmet. But what was youth or age? And what was beauty itself if a lady with neither a young nor attractive face could give him the impression that he was gazing at a magnificent goddess and give him thrills he had never imagined experiencing in his little life?
Paul would have laughed them to scorn if someone had informed him that this would happen to him or that he would have this experience. In the beginning, he was generally fairly reserved around women and had any business acumen. It took him some time to get to know one well enough to even chat with them comfortably. And yet, here he was, starting a journey that had the feel of an adventure from the Arabian Nights.
The pulse in his throat could be felt when he sat down and moved forward. At the time, everything looked quite natural, but later, he pondered how she had learned his name was Paul and how everything had come to happen.
Half closing her eyes, she murmured, "For three days you have thought of me, Paul—is it not so?
However, he was only able to scream "Yes!" as he ate her up with his gaze.
"How could I put it? We are both floating, making holiday plans, and trying to forget. And I suppose we ought to have a brief conversation together. Who knows?
Oh, yes, Paul exclaimed.
She said, "You know, Paul, you are attractive. So tall and erect like you English, with golden-colored curls. When you were a baby, your mother must have adored you.
"I suppose she did," Paul answered.
She is healthy? Your mother, the elegant woman?
He asked, perplexed, "Very well—do you know her?"
"Long ago, I saw her, and I immediately recognized you—as well as to your uncles, particularly the Lord Hubert."
The phrase "Uncle Hubert is a rotter!"
"A—rotter?" the woman questioned. The question is, "And what is that?" She then grinned a heavenly smile.
Paul was embarrassed. "Oh! It is rotten, you know, like Uncle Hubert, I suppose.
She laughed once more. "You don't explain very well, but I get it. So you only superficially resemble Uncle Hubert, which is good.
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