Page:Lippincotts Monthly Magazine-39.djvu/31

Rh of fact, I don't know that it makes much difference whether Sinfire be really what she purports to be or not. She is a fine creature, capable of being the mother of a noble race. All the rest is rather an object of curiosity than of practical importance. But suppose it is John's fortune she is after, and means, when she has got it, to disappear? Well, that would be John's business: if he couldn't keep her, he wouldn't deserve her; for she has a heart, for the man who has the stuff in him to win it.

But, if she be an adventuress, how came she in connection with my late uncle Edward? There is no doubt that he had one daughter, at least. Really, there is no reason for any misgiving,—except that she does seem to be withholding something, and that she is so remarkably handsome. People don't expect to find women like her among their own private relatives. But let her become Mrs. John Mainwaring, by all means!

John came into my bedroom the next morning, while I was dressing. He is a man whose body and unconscious movements speak more plainly than his tongue can, especially when he has anything to say. So, as he forged about the room, stared out of the window, took up the Medical Record from the table and tossed it down again, pulled a sprig from my pot of heliotrope and crushed it between his fingers, or laid hold of an Indian club and swung it over his shoulder, I took it as said that he had been making love to Sinfire and that she was still amusing herself by parrying his attacks. No doubt she found it good sport: women are made that way, whether they love the victim or not. John wanted me to begin the conversation, but I made believe to be profoundly abstracted, and kept humming in a preoccupied way to myself as I went on shaving.

"Strikes me you're mighty particular about your toilet, for a man who doesn't go into society," grumbled the heir of Cedarcliffe, at length. "Anybody would say you were in love!"

"It is the lovers who pay no attention to such things," I returned. "That is what Shakespeare said; and he knew. You are the one who wears the lover's marks."

"I! Who is there for me to be in love with?" asked transparent John.

"Well, that is your affair. But if I were you I think I should be in love with Cousin Sinfire, for lack of something better."

"Something better!" he called out. "I'd like to know where in this world you could find anybody better than she is!"

"Well," said I, wiping my razor and going to the wash-stand, "if you think her the right sort, she is the right sort—for you!"