Fulvia paused; and she could see that he was striving to speak, striving and unable. "Oh don't! Pray don't!" she begged piteously. "If you would but wait!"
"I have found out—" he tried to say, and the voice was so husky as to be inarticulate. A resolute effort conquered this. He grasped the chair again with both hands, and spoke in a distinct tone: "I have found out what my father meant."
"Meant!—When?"
"When he begged your pardon."
"I don't care what you have found out. I don't care what he meant. I will not hear it now," cried Fulvia passionately. "What do you think I am made of?—Talking of money, money, to me to-day! To-day of all days! I can't bear it, and you can't either! Please leave off!"
"No use. You must hear soon; and the sooner the better. I can't stand not telling you." There was a touch of appeal in the words, almost as if he craved her help. At the moment she hardly noticed it. "I have been looking at papers," he went on.
"Then you ought not! It was wrong, so soon! I don't care what you have found. The money isn't so much as uncle Arthur fancies, I suppose. What if it is not? What do I care? He has done harm enough with his meddling. He shall have no voice in my affairs now. I shall never be able to forgive him for—yesterday!" She had to pause and think before saying "yesterday." Her twenty-first birthday seemed so long ago.
"He was not to blame—wilfully."
"He was to blame! He knew better, or he ought to have known. But never mind that now. I only want you to say what must be said, and have done with it."
"I cannot give full particulars yet. There has been—no time. My father's affairs are—have been for years—in a state of complication—embarrassment. How much so I have never guessed. The crash must have come in—in any case. It has been staved off by—by means of—" Then a break. "Ruin to us all!" followed abruptly.