At Love's Cost

Stafford rowed on in silence for some minutes. His beautiful companion

did not seem to want him to talk and certainly showed no desire to talk

herself; so he gave himself up to thinking of Ida--and wishing that it

was she who was sitting opposite him there, instead of this girl with

the face of a Grecian goddess, with the lustrous hair of an houri. At

last, feeling that he ought to say something, he remarked, as he gazed

at the marvellous view: "Very beautiful, isn't it?"

She raised her eyes and let them wander from the glittering water to

the glorious hills.

"Yes, I suppose it is. I'm afraid I don't appreciate scenery as much as

other people do. Perhaps it is because one is always expected to fall

into raptures over it. Does that shock you? I'm afraid I shock most

people. The fact is, I have been brought up in a circle which has

taught me to loathe sentiment. They were always gushing about their

feelings, but the only thing they cared for was money!"

"That ought to have made you loathe money," said Stafford, with a

smile, and a certain kind of interest; indeed, it was difficult not to

feel interested in this beautiful girl, with the face and the form of a

goddess, and, apparently, as small a capacity of emotion.

"Oh, no," she said, languidly; "on the contrary, it showed me the value

of money. I saw that if I had not been rich, the daughter of a rich

man, I should have been of no account in their eyes. They were always

professing to love me, but I was quite aware that it was because I was

rich enough to be able to buy pleasure for them."

"Unpleasant kind of people," remarked Stafford.

"No; just the average," she said, coolly. "Nearly all men and women are

alike--worldly, selfish, self-seeking. Look at my father," she went on,

as coolly as before. "He thinks of nothing but money; he has spent his

life fighting, scrambling, struggling for it; and look at yours--"

"Oh, hold on!" said Stafford, laughing, but reddening a little. "You're

very much mistaken if you think my father is that kind of man."

She smiled.

"Why, everybody has some story of his--what shall I call

it?--acuteness, sharpness; and of the wonderful way in which he has

always got what he wanted. I don't want to be offensive, Mr. Orme, but

I'm afraid both our fathers are in the same category. And that both

would sacrifice anything or anyone to gain their ends."