"You must marry her," Rachael said. "The girl will serve your purpose as well as another. She is rich, and she is a fool."
"She is not of age," Saton said drily, "and Mr. Rochester is her guardian."
"She will be of age very soon," Rachael answered, "and the money is sure."
"Do we need it?" he asked, a little impatiently. "We are making now far more than we can spend."
"We need money all the time," she answered. "At present, things prosper. Yet a change might come--a change in the laws, a campaign in the press--anything. Even the truth might leak out."
Saton rose from his place, and going once more to the sideboard, took up and lit a long Russian cigarette. He returned with the box, and laid it before Rachael.
"If the truth should leak out," he said, "that would be the end of us in this country. We have had one escape. I do not mean to find myself in the prisoner's dock a second time."
"There is no fear of that," she answered. "The whole business is so arranged that neither you nor I would be connected with it. Besides, we have rearranged things. We are within the pale of the law now. To return to what I was saying about this girl."
"There is no hurry," he said. "Marriage does not interest me."
"Marriage for its own sake, perhaps, no," she answered, "and yet money you must have. No man has ever succeeded in any great work without it. If a pauper proclaims a theory, he is laughed to scorn. He is called a charlatan and an impostor. If a rich man speaks of the same thing, his words are listened to as one who stirs the world. There is a change in you, Bertrand," she continued. "You have avoided this girl lately. You have avoided, even, your work. What is it?"
"Who knows?" he answered, lightly. "The weather, perhaps--the moon--one's humor. I will walk this morning in Kensington Gardens. Perhaps I shall see Lois."
He left the house half-an-hour later, after dictating some letters to a newly installed secretary. He accepted a carefully brushed hat from a well-trained and perfectly respectful servant, who placed also in his hands his stick and gloves. He descended a few immaculate steps and turned westward, frowning thoughtfully. The matter with him! He knew well enough. He had taken his fate into his hands, played his cards boldly enough, but Fate was beginning to get her own back.