"In debt, as usual, I suppose?" grimly.
"Deeply!" with increasing gloom.
"And you expect me to help you, I suppose?"
"No. I expect nothing. I hope only for one thing," says Mr. Gower, fixing a haggard gaze upon her face.
"If it's a cheque from me," says his aunt sternly, "you will hope a long time."
"I don't think so," sadly.
"What do you mean, sir? Do you think I am a weathercock, to change with every wind? You have had your last cheque from me, Randal. Be sure of that. I shall no longer pander to your wicked ways, your terrible extravagances."
"I didn't mean that. I wished only to convey to you the thought that soon there would be no room for hope left to me."
"Well, there isn't _now!" _says Miss Gower cheerfully, "if you are alluding to me. Row on, Randal; there isn't anything like as good a view from this spot as there is from the lower end!"
"I like the middle of the lake," says Mr. Gower, in a sepulchral tone. As he speaks he draws in both oars, and leaning his arms upon them, looks straight across into her face. It is now neck or nothing, he tells himself, and decides at once it shall be neck. "Aunt," says he, in a low, soft, sad tone—a tone that reduces itself into a freezing whisper, "Are you prepared to die?"