Lady Okehampton asked this question with such a thrilling awfulness, that it sounded like a sentence of death.
"No, aunt. Why should I make a will? I have nothing to leave. You know I have only a life interest in the Provana estate."
"Nothing to leave! But your accumulations? Your surplus income?"
"I don't think I can have any surplus. Claude and I have spent money freely, at home and abroad; and I have given large sums for the foundation of a hospital in Rome, in memory of Mario and his daughter. Claude manages everything for me. I have never asked him whether there was any money left at the end of the year."
"And of that colossal income—which you have enjoyed for five years—you have nothing left? It is horrible to think of. What mad waste, what incredible extravagance there must have been. You ought not to have left everything in Claude's hands. Such a careless, happy-go-lucky fellow ought never to have had the sole management of your immense income. It would make Signor Provana turn in his grave to know that his wealth has been wasted."
"He would not care. We never cared for money."
"Nothing left at the year's end, nothing of that stupendous wealth! It is monstrous!"
"Don't agitate yourself, dear Aunt Mildred. There may have been a surplus every year. I never asked Claude whether there was or not. But I shall always be rich enough to help my poor relations."
There was no time for further remonstrance. Aunt Mildred parted from her niece with more sighs than kisses, though those were many.
She perused the sweet, pale face with earnest scrutiny, for she thought she saw the mark of doom on the forehead where the lines were deeper than they should have been on the sunny side of thirty. She remembered the short-lived mother, the consumptive father.