Cricklander, at Carlsbad, was not altogether pleased to receive the
news of her _fiance's_ accession to fortune. She realized that John
Derringham was not the sort of man to give up his will to any woman
unless the woman had entirely the whip hand, as she would have had if he
had been dependent upon her for the financial aid wherewith to obtain
his ambitions. She would have practically no hold over him now, and,
when he was well, he was so attractive that she might even grow to care
too deeply for him for her own welfare. To allow herself to become in
love with a husband who was answerable to her for his very food and
lodging, and whom she could punish and keep in bondage when she pleased,
was quite a different matter to experiencing that emotion towards an
imperious, independent creature going his own way, and even, perhaps,
compelling her to conform to his.
"How stupid of the old man, Mr. Scroope, to have married so late!" she
said to herself, as usual finding everyone wrong who in any way
interfered with her wishes.
John Derringham's letters--only two a week she received from him--were
his usual masterpieces of style, and in them he employed his skill to
say everything--and nothing.
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