“Ah, I thought that was coming! Yes, once. Just about the time when I returned from abroad, I had a letter from my bankers to say that he—that man—had paid a sum of money—about two hundred and thirty pounds—to my account. It was money I had lent him a long time before, and he had the audacity to ask them to send him a receipt in my handwriting! I told them to send the man a receipt themselves, and to inform him from me that I was sorry he had paid the money, as it had reminded me of his hateful existence.”
After another interval Fan remarked, “I am glad he paid the money, Mary.”
“Why—do you think I couldn't afford to lose that? I would rather have lost it.”
“I wasn't thinking of the money. But it showed that he had some right feelings—that he was not altogether bad.”
“You should be the last person to say that, Fan. You should hate his memory with all your heart.”
“I am so happy to be with you again, Mary; I feel that I cannot hate anyone, however wicked he may be.”
“Yes, you are like that Scotch minister who prayed for everything he could think of in earth and heaven, and finally finished up by praying for the devil. But are you really so happy, dear Fan? Is your happiness quite complete—is there nothing wanting?”
“I should like very, very much to know where Constance is.”
“Well, judging from what you have told me, I should think she must be very miserable indeed. They are very poor, no doubt, and in ordinary circumstances poverty would perhaps not make her unhappy, for, being intellectual, she would always have the beauty of her own intellect and the stars to think about.”
“Do you really think that, Mary—that she is miserable?”