“But, my dear Connie—you are my ward—and I am your guardian! How can I let you give me money?”
“It’s my own money,” said Connie firmly. “You know it is. Father wrote to you to say I might spend it now, as I liked—all there was, except the capital of my two thousand a year, which I mayn’t spend—till I am twenty-five. This has nothing to do with that. I’m quite free—and so are you. Do you think”—she drew herself up indignantly—“that you’re going to make me happy—by turning me out, and all—all of you going to rack and ruin—when I’ve got that silly money lying in the bank? I won’t have it! I don’t want to go and live in the Cowley Road! I won’t go and live in the Cowley Road! You promised father and mother to look after me, Uncle Ewen, and it isn’t looking after me—”
“You can’t reproach me on that score as much as I do myself!” said Ewen Hooper, with emotion. “There’s something in that I admit—there’s something in that.”
He began to pace the room. Presently, pausing beside Connie, he plunged into an agitated and incoherent account of the situation—of the efforts he had made to get even some temporary help—and of the failure of all of them. It was the confession of a weak and defeated man; and as made by a man of his age to a girl of Connie’s, it was extremely painful. Nora hid her eyes again, and Connie got paler and paler.
At last she went up to him, holding out again appealing hands.
“Please don’t tell me any more! It’s all right. I just love you, Uncle Ewen—and—and Nora! I want to help! It makes me happy. Oh, why won’t you let me!”
He wavered.
“You dear child!” There was a silence. Then he resumed—as though feeling his way—
“It occurs to me that I might consult Sorell. If he thought it right—if we could protect you from loss—!”
Connie sprang at him and kissed him in delight.