"Yes, Anne. One part of the cost must always remain——a weighty incubus. It is not only that I have put myself beyond the pale of my own sphere, but I have entailed it on my children. My girls must grow up in the state to which they are born: let them be ever so refined, ever so well educated, a barrier lies across their path: in visiting, they must be confined to their father's class; they can never expect to be sought in marriage by gentlemen. Wealthy tradespeople, professional men, they may stand a chance of; but gentlemen, in the strict sense of the term, never."
"Will they feel it?"
"No, oh no. That part of the cost is alone mine. I have taken care not to bring them up to views above their father's station. There are moments when I wish I had never had children. We cannot put away our prejudices entirely, we Keppe-Carews, you see, Anne," she added, with a light laugh.
"I don't think anybody can," I said, with a wise shake of the head.
"And now, Anne—to change the subject—what were the details of that dreadful tragedy at Mr. Edwin Barley's?"
"I cannot tell them," I answered, with a rushing colour, remembering Mr. Edwin Barley's caution as to secrecy. Mrs. Hemson misunderstood the refusal.
"Poor child! I suppose they kept particulars from you: and it was right to do so. Could they not save Selina?"
"No—for she died. Mr. Edwin Barley says he knows she was treated wrongly."
"Ill-fated Selina! Were you with her when she died, Anne?"
"I was with her the night before. We thought she was getting better, and she thought it. She had forgotten all about the warning, saying it must be a dream."