"Still the same gloomy thing," tittered Lady Watson, passing her flimsy handkerchief across a pair of dry lips; "you always were, you know, Durban. The Colonel--but there"--as Durban looked at her again--"we'll not talk of the past, but of the future.--Of course, dear Miss Hedge, you know that poor Mr. Alpenny left me his money?"
"I understand so," said Beatrice coldly.
"And, naturally, you are annoyed?"
"No. Before his death Mr. Alpenny gave me to understand that he would not leave me any money. You perhaps had a greater claim on him than I, Lady Watson."
The other tittered, and avoided Durban's eyes. "Oh dear me, no. The poor creature--Mr. Alpenny, you know--was in love with me ages and ages ago, long before I married Sir Reginald. But Reginald is dead, and so is Mr. Alpenny--everyone seems to die--so dreadful, you know, Miss Hedge--or rather I should say Beatrice. I shall call you Beatrice, since we are to be friends, and live together."
"Live together?"
"Oh! haven't I told you? I am such a feather-head. Yes. Whenever I found that poor Mr. Alpenny--queer creature, wasn't he?--had left me his money, I said I would come down and ask you to be my companion--my child, in fact, if I may put it so. You shall have everything you want. I must have someone to look after the house, as the servants are so tiresome, and I am a lonely woman without a chick or child."
"Miss Hedge is going to Convent Grange," said Durban thickly.
Lady Watson started and again turned pale. "That horrid place!" she said faintly.
"Why do you call it that?" asked Beatrice quickly.