She dashed out of the room, and could never be induced to say a word further about the matter.  She would indeed have found it impossible to express her intense antipathy and sense of impending calamity.  She had not the phrases to make herself clear even to herself, and after all what controlling effort can one produce when one is only eight years old?

CHAPTER II

A LACK OF PERCEPTION

Mercantile as Americans were proclaimed to be, the opinion of Sir Nigel Anstruthers was that they were, on some points, singularly unbusinesslike.  In the perfectly obvious and simple matter of the settlement of his daughter’s fortune, he had felt that Reuben Vanderpoel was obtuse to the point of idiocy.  He seemed to have none of the ordinary points of view.  Naturally there was to Anstruthers’ mind but one point of view to take.  A man of birth and rank, he argued, does not career across the Atlantic to marry a New York millionaire’s daughter unless he anticipates deriving some advantage from the alliance.  Such a man—­being of Anstruthers’ type—­would not have married a rich woman even in his own country with out making sure that advantages were to accrue to himself as a result of the union.  “In England,” to use his own words, “there was no nonsense about it.”  Women’s fortunes as well as themselves belonged to their husbands, and a man who was master in his own house could make his wife do as he chose.  He had seen girls with money managed very satisfactorily by fellows who held a tight rein, and were not moved by tears, and did not allow talking to relations.  If he had been desirous of marrying and could have afforded to take a penniless wife, there were hundreds of portionless girls ready to thank God for a decent chance to settle themselves for life, and one need not stir out of one’s native land to find them.

But Sir Nigel had not in the least desired to saddle himself with a domestic encumbrance, in fact nothing would have induced him to consider the step if he had not been driven hard by circumstances.  His fortunes had reached a stage where money must be forthcoming somehow—­from somewhere.  He and his mother had been living from hand to mouth, so to speak, for years, and they had also been obliged to keep up appearances, which is sometimes embittering even to persons of amiable tempers.  Lady Anstruthers, it is true, had lived in the country in as niggardly a manner as possible.  She had narrowed her existence to absolute privation, presenting at the same time a stern, bold front to the persons who saw her, to the insufficient staff of servants, to the village to the vicar and his wife, and the few far-distant neighbours who perhaps once a year drove miles to call or leave a card.  She was an old woman sufficiently unattractive to find no difficulty in the way of limiting her acquaintances.  The unprepossessing wardrobe she had gathered in the passing years was remade again and again by the village dressmaker.  She wore dingy old silk gowns and appalling bonnets, and mantles dripping with rusty fringes and bugle beads, but these mitigated not in the least the unflinching arrogance of her bearing, or the simple, intolerant rudeness which she considered proper and becoming in persons like herself.  She did not of course allow that there existed many persons like herself.