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"The marriage market. I read it in a book, yesterday. Miss
Griggs gave it me to read aloud--Tack--Thack--"
"Thackeray?"
"Ye-es. They come here to sell the young girls to men who want
wives." She edged away from me, with a little movement of alarm.
"That is not why you have brought me here--to sell me?"
"How much do you think you would be worth?" I asked,
sarcastically.
She opened out her hands palms upward, throwing down her parasol,
as she did so, upon her neighbour's little Belgian griffon, who
yelped.
"Ch, lots," she said in her frank way. "I am very beautiful."
I picked up the parasol, bowed apologetically to the owner of the
stricken animal, and addressed Carlotta.
"Listen, my good child. You are passably good-looking, but you
are by no means very beautiful. If I tried to sell you here, you
might possibly fetch half a crown--"
"Two shillings and sixpence?" asked the literal Carlotta.
"Yes. Just that. But as a matter of fact, no one would buy you.
This is not the marriage market.


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