“It is quite true.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, suddenly understanding. “Has that precious uncle of yours disinherited his wife?”
She colored angrily. “My uncle’s wife is quite able to manage her own affairs,” she said. “Be thankful, you, that henceforth there will be money enough and to spare.”
“How much do you think?” he questioned, with a man’s curiosity to know the figure.
“Some twenty-five to thirty thousand florins a year, Theodore. We shall be able to carry out all your improvements—all Otto’s improvements—all that he used to say he would do if he could—all he could have done if he had married his cousin Helena. And I shall have a chance of trying my charity schemes. We must build an Institute. You must help me, Theodore; there will be heaps to do. We must do it all—all!” She spoke hurriedly, feverishly, as one who crushes down a tumult in her heart.
Theodore stood looking at her, his face puckered and puzzled. “All the fun of the thing is gone,” he said.
“The fun?”
“Yes, the fun. Can’t you understand? I can’t explain. There’s nothing more for to-day. Good-morning.”
“Theodore, I wonder whether thirty thousand florins will suffice to purchase their affection?” She paused. “Their armed neutrality,” she slowly said.