I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. Hoddy. He was nearly wincing. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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