A QUESTION OF HONOUR
"Your Great-aunt Rachel is dead, Roger."
Lady Gertrude made this announcement the following morning at breakfast. In her hand she held the letter which contained the news—written in an old-fashioned, sloping style of penmanship on thin, heavily black-bordered note-paper. No one made any reply unless a sympathetic murmur from Isobel could be construed as such.
"Cousin Emily writes that the funeral is to take place next Thursday," pursued Lady Gertrude, referring to the letter she held. "We shall have to attend it, of course."
"Must we?" asked Roger, with obvious lack of enthusiasm. "I haven't seen her for at least five years."
"I know." The reply came so sharply that it was evident he had touched upon a sore subject. "It is very much to be regretted that you haven't. After all, she must have left at least a hundred thousand to divide."
"Even the prospect of a share of the spoil wouldn't have compensated for the infliction of visiting an old termagant like Great-aunt Rachel," averred Roger unrepentantly.
"I shall be interested to hear the will read, nevertheless," rejoined Lady Gertrude. "After all, you were her only great-nephew and, in spite of your inattentiveness, I don't suppose she has overlooked you. She may even have remembered Isobel to the extent of a piece of jewellery."
Isobel's brown eyes gleamed—like the alert eyes of a robin who suddenly perceives the crumbs some kindly hand has scattered on the lawn.
"I'm afraid we shall have to leave you alone for a night, Nan," pursued
Lady Gertrude with a stiff air of apology.