"The idea," exclaimed Mrs. Fabian, "of her using such things in the sort of home she'll have!"
"Perhaps she'll console Mrs. Wright with them," said Edgar. "You were pitying her last night for her winter exile."
"If she did, Mrs. Wright would give them back to me at once," declared Mrs. Fabian; "but never mind, there will be no need now. Providence has thrown them right into my hands. Occasionally you can see justice work out in this world."
Edgar looked toward the portières. Kathleen might return. There was no sign of any one approaching, however.
"Well, I'm in wrong with Kath for having spoken of it, then," he said. "Let me have twenty, will you, mother? You can afford to on the strength of the heirlooms."
"I can't, Edgar."
"Ten, then; you owe me that much, I'm sure."
Mrs. Fabian's lips took a tight line.
"You know, Edgar," she said impressively, "your father has forbidden me to give you money. He says you must learn the worth of it."
The youth shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and throwing himself into an easy-chair, stretched his legs toward the blazing logs and stared at the fire with the gloom of one who feels that he has killed the goose that laid the golden eggs. He had not, however, told of Eliza's insult and his own wrathful departure from the stable. He could defend himself to Kathleen so far, when next they met, and it might possibly soften her heart.