"Ah! Robert, you have entirely too much sentiment, my boy. Do not waste yourself. I will cite you a girl—there's Frances Baxter. True, she is not good looking, in fact, I presume quite a few consider her extraordinarily plain. But that excessive income is worth your while to aspire to—such a name as Milburn is certainly worth something."
With an earnestness of tone and manner which the gossipy nature of the talk hardly seemed to call for, Robert nervously threw aside his crumpled napkin and looked sharply at his companion, saying:
"Surely, then, I may do something better with it than sell it."
"There, we will not argue, I am too wise to oppose a man who is laboring under the temporary insanity of a love affair. I had feared that you were not so level-headed as is your wont. Come, who is the woman? Is it the Southern girl at the Stanhope's?"
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Robert, looking pale and annoyed.
"Of Miss Bell—Cherokee Bell—to be sure."
"You honor me with superior judgment to so accuse, whether it be true or not," and upon Milburn's face there was that expression which tells of what is beyond.
