His attitude was one of
half penitence, half defiance. Had I not seen the girl, had he told me
that she was beautiful, and even rich and good, all our boyish pledges
would have been swept aside, and I should have cheered him on. But I
had seen her. She had laughed with me. Somehow we had understood each
other. And now I cared not so much what he felt for her as how she
looked on him. For once in our lives Tim and I were fencing.
"She's pretty, Tim," said I, "and rich, you say?"
"Mary has several thousand dollars," he answered. "Besides that,
she'll get all old man Warden has to leave, and that's a pretty pile."
"Little wonder she wears that Dunkard gown," said I with the faintest
sneer.
It angered Tim.
"That's not fair," he cried. "She's not that kind. Luther Warden is
all she has of kin, and if it makes him any happier to see her togged
out in that gawky Dunkard gown-----"
"Gawky?" said I. "Why, man, on a woman like that a plain dress is
simply quaint. She looks like an old Dutch picture.
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