She soon left the dining-room for the parlor, her dainty, merry little campaigning-ground.  What should be its future record?  Could she carry out the scheme of life which her father had suggested?  “Well,” she concluded, with an ominous flash in her eyes at her fair reflection in the mirror, “whether I can incite any one to better things or not, I can at least do some freezing out.  That gossipy, selfish old Mr. Lanniere must take his million to some other market.  I have no room in my life for him.  Neither do I dote on the future acquaintance of Mr. Strahan.  I shall put him on probation.  If men don’t want my society and regard on the new conditions, they can stay away; if they persist in coming, they must do something finer and be something finer than in the past.  The friendship of one man like Fenton Lane is worth more than the attention of a wilderness of muffs and sticks, as papa calls them.  What I fear is that I shall appear goody-goody, and that would disgust every one, including myself.”

CHAPTER VII.

Surprises.

Mr. Lanniere evidently had serious intentions, for he came unfashionably early.  He fairly beamed on the young girl when he found her at home.  Indeed, as she stood before him in her radiant youth, which her evening costume enhanced with a fine taste quickly recognized by his practised eyes, he very justly regarded her as better than anything which his million had purchased hitherto.  It might easily be imagined that he had added a little to the couleur de rose of the future by an extra glass of Burgundy, for he positively appeared to exude an atmosphere of affluence, complacency, and gracious intention.  The quick-witted girl detected at once his King-Cophetua air, and she was more amused than embarrassed.  Then the eager face of Fenton Lane arose in her fancy, and she heard his words, “I would shoulder a musket and march away to-morrow if you bade me!” How insignificant was all that this man could offer, as compared with the boundless, self-sacrificing love of the other, before whom her heart bowed in sincere homage if nothing more!  What was this man’s offer but an expression of selfishness?  And what could she ever be but an accessory of his Burgundy?  Indeed, as his eyes, humid from wine, gloated upon her, and he was phrasing his well-bred social platitudes and compliments, quite oblivious of the fact that her eyes were taking on the blue of a winter sky, her cheeks began to grow a little hot with indignation and shame.  He knew that she did not love him, that naturally she could not, and that there had been nothing in their past relations to inspire even gratitude and respect towards him.  In truth, his only effort had been to show his preference and to indicate his wishes.  What then could his offer mean but the expectation that she would take him as a good bargain, and, like any well-bred woman of the world, comply with all its conditions?  Had she given him the impression that she could do this?  While the possibility made her self-reproachful, she was conscious of rising resentment towards him who was so complacently assuming that she was for sale.