“No, I'm not. I didn't come here to talk about Deryk, only to tell you that the engagement's off, and to ask if I can have the money uncle left me.”
“When you're twenty-five, certainly.”
“The whole point is that I want it now,” said Stella.
“Why this sudden need?”
“Because I'm frightfully hard-up, and I want to share a flat with a girl I was at school with, and get something to do. Only I shall probably have to learn shorthand or something first, and if I'm not earning anything I don't quite see how I'm to live. Mother says she can't afford to increase my allowance—besides, she's dead against the idea, anyway—and I haven't got any money of my own, except what uncle left me. Of course, I know the Will said not till I'm twenty-five, but I thought if I signed a paper promising not to marry Deryk, and you and Mr Carrington agreed—because if both the trustees agree you can sort of wangle things, can't you?”
“Not to my knowledge. As I haven't the remotest intention of agreeing, the point doesn't arise.”
“Why not?” Stella demanded. “As long as I sign a paper, what difference can it possibly make? I don't mean I want to blue the capital. All I want is the income from it.”
“You won't get it, my love.”
Stella put down her glass, and rose. “Thanks so much!” she said. “I was a fool to come. I might have known you'd put a spoke in my wheel if you could. But considering what you've inherited, I think you might have been willing to let me have my rotten two thousand!”
“Dear cousin,” said Randall, “until after Probate I have inherited nothing, and nor have you. After Probate the first charity that meets my eye will get the lot.”