A Prologue To Love by Taylor Caldwell

several fortunes smuggling arms to the South in his fleet of fast clippers in the late war. Vaughn was an abolitionist: he had been a colonel in the Union Army and had many decorations, including one from Lincoln himself.
     
    The conversation flowed about and around him, and it was as if he were surrounded by ghosts who did not know he was even there. But he knew very acutely that they were aware of him, and weighing him, and wondering how they could use him, and hating and fearing and furtively admiring him. He was not a ‘gentleman’ to them. He had no proper background; he was a nobody; no one knew from where he came; he had no family. He had sprung from nowhere, powerful, ruthless, even terrible, and they preferred not to think of him when they were not doing business.
     
    The Franco-Prussian War was remarked upon at the table with serious expressions and head-shakings, then dismissed. But tomorrow it would be talked of exclusively — in his office. God damn them, thought John Ames, seeing in his mind now the avid eyes he would see tomorrow, the tight lips, the moisture on foreheads.
     
    The gentlemen prepared to join the ladies. John had not said twenty words. And he had spoken these only to Harper Bothwell, who was content with the family fortune as it was. He had many stories to relate about courtroom episodes, and they had been much enjoyed. Harper and the other gentlemen moved toward the door, and John followed them. Then he felt a discreet plucking at his arm and turned to see Clark Brittingham smiling at him. “A moment, John,” he murmured.
     
    John pulled his sleeve away rudely. “I can spare you half an hour at two tomorrow,” he said with curtness.
     
    “I’m sorry. But this isn’t business, John. It’s a private affair.”
     
    Mr. Brittingham waited until they were alone. “Dash it,” he added with a rueful smile, and repeating a British phrase which he had acquired, “it’ll only take a moment. These formalities! They aren’t even necessary, but one has to think of Cynthia.”
     
    “What has Cynthia got to do with it?”
     
    “Everything. Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be bothering you. These proprieties! But I think Cynthia would prefer it this way, as you are her brother-in-law and she has no other mature relatives.”
     
    “Well?” John stood away from him stiffly.
     
    “I’ve always wanted Cynthia,” said Clark Brittingham. “I wanted to marry her before she married that simpering fool of a George Winslow. How a girl of Cynthia’s intelligence and discrimination could have married him is one of those mysteries we’re always encountering, isn’t it? Thankfully, he removed himself in a blaze of glory, if one can use a clich é . I see you’re impatient. I’ll come to the point. I want to marry Cynthia; I’ve wanted to marry her since we were children in dancing school. Do you know?”
     
    He smiled reminiscently.
     
    John could only glare at him in absolute astonishment.
     
    “My father,” went on Mr. Brittingham, “wanted to arrange the marriage with old Esmond. The Esmonds were just a cut above the Brittinghams, though they did not have as much money. It was a social privilege to be invited to their exclusive affairs. And the girls! What beauties! They could have married anybody — ”
     
    Then Mr. Brittingham flushed deeply. He had just remembered that Ann Esmond had married this blackguard, this nobody, this man without family or schools or background. He went on hastily, cursing himself, “When they came out it wasn’t only a Boston affair; it concerned a dozen cities, and even Paris and London. They were presented at Court, you know. All fuss and feathers.”
     
    Mr. Brittingham drew a deep breath and stood up straighter. Let the bounder say what he willed. Cynthia was no longer a girl; she was a widow and had a son. She could make her own decision. “In short,” he said coolly, “I want your permission to marry Cynthia. Oh, I understand your