“Can his relations do nothing for her?”
“No. A brother of his, Mary tells me, has come, and will attend the funeral. But he has distinctly told her that he can give no help.”
Kingcote had drawn away a little; Isabel took and held his hand.
“Bernard, how can you support them?”
“Oh, for a time it doesn’t matter; I shall use my capital. Then I shall—work like others do, I suppose. I have had an easy life so long; it was sure to come to an end some day.”
“Why do you keep away from me? What does all this matter? Nothing has come between us, dear.”
His brows were heavy, and he could only look at her sadly. Isabel turned her head away, and dashed tears from her eyes.
“But you too have your ill news, you said?”
For answer she rose and fetched Ada’s letter. Bernard read it.
“Why ill news?” he asked, when he had brooded for a moment.