Then she told Mr. Dyke all about her money.
“My dear Emmie, what an astounding affair! It sounds like a fairy tale.”
“I wish it was a fairy tale,” she said; “but unfortunately it is sober truth. No, I ought not to say that. It’s very wrong of me. Only, now you see the position in which I am placed—with all this money—so much more than I want or could possibly use—with this power in my hands. Oh, Mr. Dyke, what am I to do? You see what I mean? He need not persuade other people to give him a last chance. I myself can give it to him.”
“Oh, no, he would never take money from you.”
“I think he would. I’m sure he would. To begin with, I could show him that I should still have enough, even after he’d taken all that he needed—all that he needed to do things in such a style as has never been possible to him till now. So there would be no question of leaving me impoverished.”
“That would make no difference. He’d never consent.”
“Dear Mr. Dyke, you may trust my instinct. He would refuse at first; then, after a little while, he would consent. He is eating his heart out—so that the mere personal temptation would be more than he could resist. But, beyond that, there is this idea of his that has grown so very strong. He feels that it is not only his own duty, but the duty of all English people to complete the work of that brave Englishman who gave his life down there to bring honour to England. He would feel that I could not spend my money in a better way—We’ll say no more for a moment.”
Anthony was coming down the brick steps from the terrace.
“I am having a confidential talk with your father,” said Miss Verinder, in the primly crushing manner of a grown-up person interrupted by a troublesome child.