For a full minute the clock ticked busily, with no accompaniment of human voices. Mr. Fitzalan sat with his eyes bent downward. He knew a struggle to be going on opposite, and he knew that Hermione would shrink from observation while it lasted. She would speak as soon as she was able. Till then he waited.
"Must I live there?" came at length.
"I think so; for the present. Harvey offers you a home, and no other home has presented itself. I believe it would have been your grandfather's wish."
"Yes—he—but I don't understand. I don't think I know how things really are. I did not hear the will read. He would wish me to be happy," Hermione said in short sentences, broken by agitation. "If I would rather live somewhere else, I suppose I could. I must have enough of my own. Could you tell me about that?"
"There is your mother's marriage settlement of one hundred and twenty pounds a year."
"And besides—"
"Nothing more."
"Nothing at all. But from my grandfather—"
"No." Mr. Fitzalan spoke feelingly. "He fully meant to make other arrangements, but unfortunately he put off too long. His will was made before your birth, and your name has never been inserted."
Another silence followed, longer than the last.