"Why not set up in practice for yourself at the West End?" asked George Atkinson.
"Because I have nothing to set up upon," answered Frank. "That has been a bar all along. We must live, you see, whilst the practice is coming in."
"You could do it on seven thousand pounds."
"Seven thousand pounds!" echoed Frank. "Why, yes on half of it; on a quarter. But I have no money at all, you understand."
"Yes, you have, Frank. You have just that sum. At least you will have it in the course of a few days!"
Frank's Frank's pleasant lips were parting with a smile. He thought it was meant as a joke.
"Look here. This money that has come to light, of your aunt Atkinson's—you cannot, I hope, imagine for a moment that I should keep it. By law it is mine, for she willed it to me; but I shall divide it into three portions, and give them to those who are her rightful heirs: her brothers' families. One portion to Mrs. Raynor; one to that angel of goodness, Edina——"
"And she is an angel," interrupted Frank hotly, carried away by the praise. "How we should all have got on without Edina, I don't know. But, Mr. Atkinson, you must not do this that you are talking of: at least as far as I am concerned. It would be too chivalrously generous."
"Why not to you?"
"I could not think of taking it. I have no claim upon you. Who am I, that you should benefit me?"