"Well, well," resumed Dawson, after an expressive pause (during which he disposed of a large cup of tea), "it's rather a facer, I'll allow. I believe I can trace the delicate hand of Mrs. Ffinch in it—she always has a finger in every one's pie—and hitherto she has looked upon Nancy as her own particular property. By the way, have you made any fresh plans?"
"Yes. I leave early this afternoon. Nancy's baggage will, of course, remain, and as not a word of this business is known to anyone, bar the Hicks, Mrs. Ffinch, and yourself, I shall rejoin my regiment, as if nothing had happened."
"And keep up the delusion?" said Ted, opening his large blue eyes; "that won't be easy."
"Why not? I don't intend to follow, or to trace Nancy: she can go her own way. Money affairs, I'll arrange with you. I shall make her an allowance, paid half-yearly to your bankers. Who are they?"
"Grindlay and Co., but you may spare yourself the trouble, for Nancy won't accept a penny—if I know her."
"I shall lodge it all the same," said Mayne, looking obstinate. "Two hundred and fifty pounds a year. I won't have her governessing, or any of that nonsense. The inventory here has been seen to by Mrs. Hicks, and the station-writer; I have wound up a few business matters, paid off the servants, and, excepting a couple of yearly cheques, I shall have no more to say to—Mrs. Mayne!"
"Is that so?"
"Certainly; it is Nancy who has left me,—and, as the natives say, 'one hand cannot clap.'"
"I must confess, I don't wonder you feel a bit hurt."
"Hurt!" repeated Mayne, with an angry laugh.