"Papa was very rich, and it's all mine--Only it appears he did not
approve of the freedom of American women--and so tied it up so that I
can't get it until I am an old maid of twenty-one--or get married. Is it
not disgusting?"

Michael's thoughts were now concentrating upon the vital points.

"But have you not got a guardian or something?"

"Not exactly. Only an old lawyer person who is now in London. I have
seen Papa's will, and I know I can marry when and whom I like if I get
his consent--and he would give it in a minute, he is sick of me!"

"How fortunate!" Then restlessness seized him again, and he got up,
gulped down his tea, and began his pacing.

"I do think it would be a good plan, and we must do it if we can get
this person's leave--Yes, and do it quickly before we change our minds,
or something interferes. Everyone would think we were perfectly mad, but
as it suits us both, that is no one's business--Only--you are rather
young--and er--I don't know Greenbank. You are sure he is horrid?"

The girl clasped her hands together with force.

"Sure! I should think so--He wears glasses, and has nasty, scrabbly bits
of fur on his face, which he thinks is a beard, and he is pompous and he
talks like this," and she imitated a precise Boston voice. "'My dear
Sabine--have you considered,' and he is lanky--and Oh! I detest him, and
I can't imagine why I ever said I would marry him--but if I don't, what