"Well, not exactly that. You see, Mr. Harrington's publishers never arranged for his books to be translated, so she bought the rights off them so as to be able to arrange it herself."
"I think it's rather mean to go haggling about that sort of thing after the man's dead, don't you? After all, if he'd wanted them to be translated, surely he'd have done it himself while he was alive—don't you think so? Clare seems to be out to make as much money as she can without any thought about what would have been her father's wishes."
"I confess," replied Speed, slowly, "that it never struck me in that light. Harrington had about as much business in him as a two-year-old, and if he let himself be swindled right and left, surely that's no reason why his daughter should continue in the same way. Besides, she hasn't much money and it couldn't have been her father's wish that she should neglect chances of getting some."
"She has the shop."
"It can't be very profitable."
"I daresay it won't allow her to take holidays abroad, but that's not to say it won't give her a decent living."
"Of course," said Speed, mildly, "I really don't know anything about her private affairs. You may be right in everything you say.... It's nearly eleven. Shall we go to bed?"
"Soon," she said, broodingly, gazing into the fire. She was silent for a moment and then said, slowly and deliberately: "Kenneth."
"Yes, Helen?"
"Do you know—I—I—I don't think I—I quite like Clare—as much as I used to."