Mrs. Ellis was putting the sovereigns in piles of ten. She had a queer sort of satisfaction, but her gloom did not really lift. Jack stayed to know how much it was. Mentally he counted the piles of gold she made: the pale washy gold of Australia, most of it. She counted and counted again.
"Two hundred and fourteen pounds!" she said in a low voice.
"And ten in silver," said Tom.
"Two hundred and twenty-four pounds," she said.
"It's not the world," said Tom, "but it's worth having. It's a start, Ma. And you can't say that isn't Lennie's."
Jack went out and left them. He listened in all the rooms downstairs. What he wanted to know about was Monica. He hated this family and family money business, it smelled to him of death. Where was Monica? Probably, to add to the disappointment, she was away, staying with Grace.
The house sounded silent. Upstairs all was silent. It felt as if nobody was there.
He went out and across the yard to the stable. Lucy whinnied. Jack felt she knew him. The nice, natural old thing: Tom would have to christen her afresh. At least this Lucy wouldn't leave a stocking behind her when she was dead. She was much too clean. Ah, so much nicer than that other Lucy with her unpleasant perspiration, away in Honeysuckle.
Jack stood a long while with the sensitive old horse. Then he went round the out-buildings, looking for Lennie. He drifted back to the house, where Harry was chopping something with a small hatchet.
"Where's Monica, Harry?" he asked.