to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. Absolutely. He began to think of speeches, very firm, explicit speeches, he would make.
He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy. Daughters were in the air that day. Ogilvy was full of a client’s trouble in that matter, a grave and even tragic trouble. He told some of the particulars.
“Curious case,” said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in a way he had. “Curious case—and sets one thinking.”
He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. Schoolgirl. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. Father—dead. She goes out and comes home. Afterward goes on to Oxford. Twenty-one, twenty-two. Why doesn’t she marry? Plenty of money under her father’s will. Charming girl.”
He consumed Irish stew for some moments.
“Married already,” he said, with his mouth full. “Shopman.”
“Good God!” said Mr. Stanley.
“Good-looking rascal she met at Worthing. Very romantic and all that. He fixed it.”
“But—”
“He left her alone. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. Sheer calculation on his. Went up to Somerset House to examine the will before he did it. Yes. Nice position.”
“She doesn’t care for him now?”
“Not a bit. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Only a son’s another story. We fixed that. Well, that’s the situation. My people don’t know what to do. Can’t face a scandal. Can’t ask the gent to go abroad and condone a bigamy. He misstated her age and address; but you can’t get home on him for a thing like that.... There you are! Girl spoilt
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