Lord Loveland Discovers America

								

you can--for yourself. As for me, I want nothing."
"Except a rich daughter-in-law," finished her son, his spirits rising
though the snow still fell. After all, it was only October, and there
was sunshine elsewhere. In America perhaps it was now shining on his
bride to be! "I'll write to Betty about the letters," he said, "after
you've given me some tea."

CHAPTER TWO
Between Betty and Jim

One of Loveland's most easily detected virtues was his careless habit of
telling the truth. He had never lied, or even fibbed whitely, as a small
boy, an idiosyncrasy which had often seriously inconvenienced his mother
and other relations whose pet failings or economies he had ruthlessly
exposed. But Lady Betty Bulkeley had always maintained that this bold
truthfulness of her cousin's was the result of inconsiderateness rather
than nobility of soul.
She said (and she ought to have known, as she had been acquainted with
him since she was two, and he eight, years old) that he did not bother
to think of polite fibs, simply because the feelings of others were not
for him of enough importance to seem worth saving at the cost of mental
effort. Besides, according to Betty, Val took an impish delight in
shocking people. As for blurting out the truth about his own affairs,
the habit sprang from that impishness, in idle moods, and a sublime
indifference to public opinion in serious states of mind. Now, in his
letter to Betty asking for introductions, he made no attempt to cover
his real intentions with the roses of pretty fiction.
He let it appear plainly that he thought his cousin, having visited
America and snatched a millionaire from the matrimonial grab-bag, ought
gladly to help him succeed in the same game.
"The wretch!" said Betty, in the midst of reading Loveland's brutally
frank letter to Jim, her American trophy, "I believe he has the
impudence to think I married you for money! I'd like to shake him, and
box his silly, conceited ears."
"They may be silly and conceited, but they're exactly the shape of
yours, darling, so I couldn't find it in my heart to box them, no matter
how much good it might do their owner," said Jim Harborough, who had
been Betty's husband for nearly a year, and was joyously watching her
triumphs as a young married woman.
Naturally Betty kissed him for this speech, as they were at breakfast
alone together, the servants banished.
"Well, anyway, we won't give him the letters," she said when she had
gone back to her own place--not far away.
"Won't we?" asked Jim, with a thoughtful air.
"No, certainly not," returned Betty. "I like your country-women, and I
won't deliberately let Loveland loose to prey upon them."
"I 'guess' they can take care of themselves," said Jim, putting on his
Yankiest accent.
"I don't know. Some of them might fall in love with him," suggested
Betty doubtfully. "He's awfully good-looking, with a kind of winning,
boyish way, and--a voice that's far too nice to express him, really. One