“Not a great deal, I’m afraid. Father was comparatively poor when he died.”
“There’s money,” said Lady Maxell thoughtfully; “more than I have ever seen since I have been in this house, believe me.”
She returned, as though fascinated, and lifted the envelope again and peered inside.
“Poor, was he?” she said. “I think you people don’t know what poverty is. Do you know what all this means?”
She held the envelope up and there was a look in her face which the girl had never seen before.
“It means comfort, it means freedom from worry, it means that you don’t have to pretend and make love to men whom you loathe.”
The girl had risen and was staring at her.
“Lady Maxell!” she said in a shocked voice. “Why—why—I never think of money like that.”
“Why should you?” said the woman roughly, as she flung the package on the table. “I’ve been after money in quantities like that all my life. It has always been dangling in front of me and eluding me—eluding is the word, isn’t it?” she asked carelessly.
“What are all those pictures?” she changed the subject abruptly, pointing to the framed photographs which covered the walls. “They’re photographs of India, aren’t they?”