"She married a Jew money-lender," said Hubert drily. "I saw her the other day—she weighs fourteen stone, I should think!"
"Poor little Mary! It is not love then?"
"No, it is not." He was silent a minute or two, pulling his moustache with a quick nervous movement which betrayed some agitation of mind. Then he said quickly, "I had better tell you something and get it over, though I have no wish to rake up the memory of unpleasant subjects. I heard a few months ago that the man Westwood was dead."
"Dead? At Portland?"
"Yes. An accident on the works where he was engaged. He died after a few hours' unconsciousness."
Florence meditated for a few moments and then said softly—
"I think that I now understand."
"It will be better that we do not speak of the matter again," said Hubert, in the masterful way which she was beginning to recognise as one of his characteristics. "It is all over and done with; nothing we can say or do will make any difference. The man is gone, and we are here. We can begin a new life if we choose."
His sister watched him with eyes which expressed a greater gloom than he was able to understand. Her hands began to tremble as he said the last few words.
"You can—you can!" she cried, almost with vehemence. "But for me—there is no new life for me!"—and covering her face with her hands, she began to weep, not violently, but so that he saw the tears oozing from between her slender fingers.