She had never been able to like Orin, and since the time when he had
not only utterly refused to share with John the burden of their
father's debts but had scoffed at what he called his brother's "idiocy"
in paying them, Milly had found comfort in having a definite and
legitimate excuse for disliking him. She regarded him as greatly
gifted; in the eyes of Feltonville people, Orin's talents, since they
had received the sanction of substantial patronage, had loomed into
greatness somewhat absurdly disproportionate to their actual value. She
was not insensible of the honor of being connected, as the betrothed of
John, with so distinguished a man as she felt Orin to be; but she
neither liked nor trusted him.
"Oh, there are some people in Boston who know a good thing when they
see it," the young man responded, intuitively understanding that here
he need not take the trouble to affect any artificial modesty. "It's
about that that I came to talk to you."
"About--I don't think I understand."
"I want your help."
"My help? How can I help you?"
The sculptor tossed his hat into a chair, and leaned forward, tapping
on one broad, thick palm with the fingers of the other hand.
"They tell me," he said, "that you know Mrs. Fenton pretty well; Arthur
Fenton's wife,--he's an awful snob, I hate him."
"Mrs. Fenton has been very kind to me," Milly responded, involuntarily
shrinking a little, and speaking guardedly.
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