“I was in no mood to be civil, and even now, if you have anything to say except to abuse my old friend Arbuthnot, I—”
“But I have something to say; something that will astound—astound you! When you came to my house a very short time ago and asked me to give you some idea of the extent of Florence Heathcote’s fortune, I told you—”
“A lie, madam! The girl is penniless: pray don’t revert to that most annoying scene.”
“I told you no lie, Major Reid.”
“What?”
“I told you the truth. I doubtless understated the sum which will eventually belong to Florence Heathcote.”
“What is this?” said the Major, turning very pale.
“The conspiracy has been at last explained,” said Mrs Fortescue, “and my opinion is that those Arbuthnots, who set up such lofty standards, knew all about the matter from the first. Those miserable girls are heiresses, after all. Their father’s fortune, it is true, has been already expended on their education, but they inherit a large sum—doubtless many thousands—from their mother. It seems, Major Reid, that for some extraordinary, unfathomable reason we, their old and trusty friends, were to be put to the test—to the test with regard to their future: and I—I treated Florence, that beautiful, gifted spirited, rich girl, to—a ham bone!”
Angry tears rose to Mrs Fortescue’s eyes. The Major looked at her with a face very nearly as pale as her own.
“Are you certain of what you are saying?”