“And not without your reward,” she returned. “It was worth having one of your patients, at any rate, if you could induce him to leave you his daughter and a nice little sum to play with.”
“My dear!” said George from the sofa. “My dear!”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Stratton. “I didn’t mean to say that. You must excuse the feelings of a sister and—and an aunt. But,” she continued, wasting no time in the nuances of regret, “at any rate you wouldn’t think of accepting this trust if you didn’t marry? You must realize that my poor brother had your marriage in mind when he made this preposterous will.”
This was a new idea to me, and it assorted ill with Allinson’s expressed views as to the matrimonial state.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“I know,” she replied.
“But,” I said, “I saw him more often and knew him more intimately in his latter days than you could have done. He gave me no hint of wishing to see me married. I could even give you a proof to the contrary, only I should not wish to run the risk of offending you.”
Mrs. Stratton intimated that she should like to hear anything that her poor brother had said.
“Very well then,” I replied. “He has often remarked what a relief it was to be able to come over to me in the evening, to a house where there were no women about to have to be polite to.”
“Disgraceful!” said Mrs. Stratton. “But his own dislike of refinement and the convenances is one thing; the bringing up of his daughter is another. I repeat that not even he would wish to leave his only child to the mercies of a bachelor. I claim to know something of his character,” she went on: “we were girl and boy together. He would have added the clause to the will if he had been more himself. I am convinced of that.”