“Everybody that’s nice ought to have money,” declared Lucia.  “Then the world would be beautiful, full of love and romance, with everybody clean and well-dressed and never in a hurry.”

But Margaret seemed not to hear.  She was gazing at the fountain, her unseeing eyes gloomily reflecting her thoughts.

“If Mr. Craig hasn’t got money why marry him?” asked her sister.

“He can get it,” replied Margaret tersely.  “He’s the man to trample and crowd and clutch, and make everybody so uncomfortable that they’ll gladly give him what he’s snatching for.”  She laughed mockingly.  “Yes, I shall get what I want”—­then soberly—­“if I can get him.”

“Get him!  Why, he’ll be delighted!  And he ought to be.”

“No, he oughtn’t to be; but he will be.”

“A man like him—­marrying a lady!  And marrying you!” Lucia threw her arms round her sister’s neck and dissolved in tears.  “Oh, Rita, Rita!” she sobbed.  “You are the dearest, loveliest girl on earth.  I’m sure you’re not doing it for yourself, at all.  I’m sure you’re doing it for my sake.”

“You’re quite wrong,” said Rita, who was sitting unmoved and was looking like her grandmother.  “I’m doing it for myself.  I’m fond, of luxury—­of fine dresses and servants and all that....Think of the thousands, millions of women who marry just for a home and a bare living! ...  No doubt, there’s something wrong about the whole thing, but I don’t see just what.  If woman is made to lead a sheltered life, to be supported by a man, to be a man’s plaything, why, she can’t often get the man she’d most like to be the plaything of, can she?”

“Isn’t there any such thing as love?” Lucia ventured wistfully.  “Marrying for love, I mean.”

“Not among our sort of people, except by accident,” Margaret assured her.  “The money’s the main thing.  We don’t say so.  We try not to think so.  We denounce as low and coarse anybody that does say so.  But it’s the truth, just the same ....  Those who marry for money regret it, but not so much as those who marry only for love —­when poverty begins to pinch and to drag everything fine and beautiful down into the mud.  Besides, I don’t love anybody—­thank God!  If I did, Lucia, I’m afraid I’d not have the courage!”

“I’m sure you couldn’t!” cried Lucia, eager to save all possible illusion about her sister.  Then, remorseful for disloyal thoughts:  “And, if it wasn’t right, I’m sure you’d not do it.  You may fall in love with him afterward.”

“Yes,” assented Margaret, kissing Lucia on an impulse of gratitude.  “Yes, I may.  I probably shall.  Surely, I’m not to go through life never doing anything I ought to do.”

“He’s really handsome, in that bold, common way.  And you can teach him.”

Margaret laughed with genuine mirth.  “How surprised he’d be,” she exclaimed, “if he could know what’s going on in my head!”

“He’ll be on his knees to you,” pursued Lucia, wonderfully cheered up by her confidence in the miracles Margaret’s teaching would work.  “And he’ll do whatever you say.”