"If I don't go out as governess, I shall be useful at home," said Fulvia. A touch of hardness was visible in her manner.
"You—go—out—as—governess!" Mr. Carden-Cox could hardly give utterance to the words.
"Fulvia is talking nonsense. That will not be." Nigel spoke resolutely, but Fulvia could see what the interview was to him.
"I don't know who is to prevent, if I choose."
"I do. It will not be permitted."
"Permitted! I should just—think—not!" gasped Mr. Carden-Cox. "Fulvia Rolfe to go—out—as—governess! And pray, what of Fulvia Rolfe's fifty thousand pounds? Eh? What of my niece's fifty thousand pounds? I am her uncle, remember! Her only near relative, remember! I have a right to know, to demand! What of Fulvia's money, entrusted to—to—to—your father?"
Mr. Carden-Cox was in a towering passion, too much of a passion for lucid speech. He already saw what he had to expect, and he nearly foamed at the mouth.
"Fulvia's money!" he reiterated. "Fulvia's fifty—thousand—pounds! Eh? Eh? Eh? What of that, eh? Where is it?"
One word would have been sufficient answer, just the little word "Gone!" Nigel could not say it. His self-command was not equal to the strain. To have to confess this of his dead father before Mr. Carden-Cox, before the wronged Fulvia, before Albert Browning's own daughters, was too much. There was a parting of the lips, and an effort to speak, but no sound came, and the lips closed again with rigid pressure, as if he were hardly able to endure himself.
Fulvia had meant to remain in the background, but the sight of Nigel's distress overpowered her, and she started forward impulsively.