“Perhaps you haven’t my sort of conscience,” answered Constance, laughing to conceal her intense hatred and contempt of him.

Gresham, adopting also the light manner of small talk, laughed with her.

“Really it wouldn’t be so bad,” he urged.  “We would make a very fair couple when we were averaged.  You are beautiful and accomplished enough to make up for all the deficiencies I may have.”

“You do say nice things to me,” acknowledged Constance, “but there is one deficiency you have overlooked.  We do not love each other, and that is fatal to Aunt Gertrude’s rather impertinent plans.  It renders even a discussion of the matter impossible.  I can not marry you ever.”

Gresham’s lips turned dry.

“I believe you really mean that,” he stumbled, unable quite to comprehend it.

“Certainly I do,” she assured him.

“But you don’t understand,” he protested.  “You can’t understand or you would at least take time for more serious consideration.  You are relinquishing your entire fortune!”

“Making myself a penniless pauper,” she mocked with a light-hearted feeling that some one—­description mentally evaded—­would make a fortune unnecessary.

“It is a million dollars,” he insisted.

“A million—­that sounds familiar!” and she laughed in remembrance of her tilt with Polly.

Gresham swallowed three separate and very distinct times.

“A half-interest in that million is mine,” he complained.  “You can not turn over your share to an absurd charity without also throwing mine away.  It is not fair.”

“Fair?” repeated Constance.  For an instant she felt her temper surging, then caught herself and took refuge in burlesque.  “The only fair thing about it is that my Aunt Gertrude’s will gave her orphaned niece the choice between a title with riches and poverty with freedom,” and raising her eyes and hand toward heaven she started to sweep from the room with queenly grace, stifling a giggle as she went.

“Wait just a minute,” begged Gresham, suppressing his anger.  “We should arrange in some way to keep the money.  We can, at least, be practical.”

Constance, whose faculties were not so concentrated as his, heard a rustle on the stairs and glancing out through the portieres into the hall, saw Polly, without her hat, hurrying to the front door.  The bell had not rung, and she divined that Polly, out of the boudoir window, had seen some particular company approaching.

“It seems impossible,” she returned, and waited.

“Not quite,” Gresham assured her with a smile.  “There is one way we could carry out the provisions of your aunt’s will and still force no repugnant companionship upon you.”

“I think I see,” replied Constance—­“you mean that we part at the altar,” and in spite of all her efforts to keep her face straight she finally laughed.

“Well, I didn’t intend to put it quite in that melodramatic way,” resented Gresham.