There was silence in our drawing-room. Million's little face turned, with a positively scared expression, from Aunt Anastasia to me.
"D'you think it's true, Miss?"
"Have you ever heard of this Mr. Samuel Million before?"
"Only that he was poor dad's brother that quarrelled with him for enlisting. I heard he was in America, gettin' on well——"
"That class," murmured my Aunt Anastasia with concentrated resentment, "always gets on!"
That was horrid of her!
I didn't know how to make it up to Million. I put out both hands and took her little roughened hands.
"Million, I do congratulate you. I believe it's true," I said heartily, finding my voice at last. "You'll have heaps of money now. Everything you want. A millionaire's heiress, that's what you are!"
"Me, miss?" gasped the bewildered-looking Million. "Me, and not you, that wanted money? Me an heiress? Oh, lor'! whatever next?"
The next morning—the morning after that startling avalanche of news had been precipitated into the monotonous landscape of our daily lives—I accompanied Million to the lawyer's office, where she was to hear further particulars of her unexpected, her breath-taking, her epic legacy.