The Salt Of The Earth by Fred M. White

Vanstone pulled hard at his cigar; and his thin, delicate nostrils flicked angrily.

"That is what I was afraid of, " he said. "It's the very thing we have to avoid. Upon my word, the idea of that dainty woman selling herself to a brute like Callader makes me turn cold. Why, the man is a cross-grained cad whose chief amusement lies in the arranging of prize-fights. It is inexplicable that such a man should be such a fine judge of art matters. But he mustn't marry that girl, Denne; he mustn't indeed. She is a superb creature, and it is not her fault that she has drifted into a smart set where she shines so brilliantly. That woman would make an ideal queen. A statesman would find her a perfect helpmeet. Oh, you may laugh and say I am in love with her myself. I am. But not in the way you think, Denne, not in the way you think. I worship her from afar--the desire of the moth for the star. I don't suppose a materialist like you can follow me. But I want you to give me your promise, Denne; I want to hear you say that Adela Burton shall not marry Mark Callader."