''Now, to tell you what I know,'' he says.
''I know you gain nothing unless you marry. I first had it from Hawtrey. They speak about you—perhaps you know—in the shady bookshops and publishers'' houses of London and Paris. They speak about you, as of some fabulous creature: the handsome girl at Briar, whom Lilly has trained, like a chattering monkey, to recite voluptuous texts for gentlemen—perhaps to do worse. I needn''t tell you all they say, I suppose you can guess it. That''s nothing to me.'' He holds my gaze, then looks away. ''Hawtrey, at least, is a little kinder; and thinks me honest, which is more to our point. He told me, in a pitying sort of way, a little of your life—your unfortunate mother— your expectations, the conditions attached. Well, one hears of such girls, when one is a bachelor; perhaps not one in a hundred is worth the pursuit. . . But Hawtrey was right. I have made enquiries into your mother''s fortune, and you are worth—well, do you know what you are worth, Miss Lilly?''
I hesitate, then shake my head. He names the figure. It is several hundred times the value of the costliest book upon my uncle''s shelves; and many thousand times the price of the cheapest. This is the only measure of value I know.
''It is a great sum,'' says Mr Rivers, watching my face.