talks, and daily adventures were something more to him
than fun. I haven't flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you
said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like
me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know Mother will
shake her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!",
but I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him,
though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably
together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich--ever so
much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object,
and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the
estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a
fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as
comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe
in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family
jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its
park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be
all I should ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls
snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I
hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can
help. One of us _must_ marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't
yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry
a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that, and though Fred is
not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond
enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked.
So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it
was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but
little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my
side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me.
Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then
said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about '_ein
wonderschones Blondchen'_, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his
meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the
cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, fo