Yes, it did sound very much like probability.  I wasn’t given to self-analysis; but I acknowledged to myself, that I was very much disappointed, and that if I had known that this was going to happen, I should have stayed in Europe.

I had never felt as if there were any chance of Richard marrying any one; I had not said to myself, that his love for me still had an existence, nor had I any reason to believe it.  But the truth had been, I had always felt that he belonged to me, and was my right, and I felt a bitter resentment toward this woman, who was supposed to have usurped my place.  How dared Richard love anybody else!  I was angry with him, and very much hurt, and very, very unhappy.

Long after Mrs. Throckmorton went to her middle-aged repose, I sat up and went through imaginary scenes, and reviewed the situation a hundred times, and tried to convince myself of what I wanted to believe, and ended without any satisfaction.

One thing was certain.  If Richard was going to marry Charlotte Benson, he was not going to do it because he loved her.  He might not be prevented from doing it because he loved me; but he did not love her.  I could not say why exactly.  But I knew she was not the kind of woman for him to think of loving, and I would not believe it till I heard it from himself, and I would hear it from himself at the earliest possible date.  I did not like to be unhappy, and was very impatient to get rid of this, if it were not true, and to know the worst, at once, if it were.

“My dear Throcky,” I said to my companion, at the breakfast-table, “I think you’d better go and take dinner with your niece to-day.  I’ve sent for Mr. Vandermarck to come and dine, and I thought perhaps you’d rather not be bored; we shall have business to talk about, and business is such a nuisance when you’re not interested in it.”

“Very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Throckmorton, with indestructible good-humor.

“Or you might have a headache, if you’d rather, and I’ll send your dinner up to you.  I’ll be sure Susan takes you everything that’s nice.”

“Well, then, I think I’ll have a headache; I’m afraid I’d rather have it than one of Mary Ann’s poor dinners. (I’d be sure of one to-morrow if I went.)”

“Paris things have spoiled you, I’m afraid,” I said.  “Only see that I have something nice for Richard, won’t you?—­How do you think the cook is going to do?” This was the first sign of interest I had given in the matter of menage; by which it will be seen I was still a little selfish, and not very wise.  But Throckmorton was a person to cultivate my selfishness, and there had not been much to develop the wisdom of common life.

She promised me a very pretty dinner, no matter at what trouble, and made me feel quite easy about her wounded feelings.  One of the best features of Throckmorton was, she hadn’t any feelings; you might treat her like a galley-slave, and she would show the least dejection.  It was a temptation to have such a person in the house.