"A great trouble has come to us."
"A great trouble, my dear, what do you mean?"
"Mother thinks it a fearful trouble, and I suppose it is, but anyhow there are two ways of taking it. There is the sinking-down way, which means getting small and poor and thin, anaemic, in short, and there is the bold way, the sort of way when you stand up to a thing, you know what I mean."
"You are talking school-boy language. My grandson Ralph would understand you; he is here; do you want to see him? I am a little too busy for riddles, Westenra."
"Oh! I do beg your pardon. I know I am taking a great liberty: no one else would come to you at so early an hour."
"Well, speak, my dear."
"We have lost our money."
"Lost your money!" cried the Duchess.
"Yes; everything, or nearly everything. It was through some bad investments, and mother was not at all to blame. But we have nothing left, or nearly nothing—I mean we have a hundred and fifty a-year, about the price of one of your dresses."
"Don't be personal, Westenra—proceed."