"Yes, that's the worst part of it!" cried Bundy. "Your life is to be sacrificed too. With your splendid education you ought to be making a figure in the world. At all events you ought to be back upon your ranch, if that's the kind of life you mean to live. You must know that."

"Yes, I know it. But I can't go back as long as father lives. I have to make amends to him for past unkindness. And, remember, he has no one left but me."

"What about Helen?" said Mrs. Bundy.

"That's one of the things I came over to tell you about. I have a letter from her. You had better read it."

The letter was dated from Paris, and read as follows:

"DEAR ARTHUR:

"I hear that you are back in London, so you know all about the mess father has made of his affairs. You were lucky to be out of it, for it was a dreadful disgrace. I thought I should have died of shame. Just, too, when he was going to be knighted, for that's come out since, you know. He must have known all about it—I mean the disgrace—long before it came. And yet he never told me one word, but let me think things were all right, and was always talking to me about the house he meant to build, and the place in society I was to have. I can see now that it was all lies, and I will never forgive him. I suppose you will say I ought to sympathise with him, and all that kind of rot: you always did pretend to be so mighty good. Well, I don't, and I won't forgive him. And I dare say you'll say I ought to have stayed with him, and all that kind of thing. A pretty idea! As if I could have put my head out of doors, with everybody talking about us, and father's name in all the papers. I did go out once, and the Collinson girls, proud, conceited things, cut me dead, though I went to school with them. I wasn't going to stand that, so, after mother's funeral, I went away to one of my true friends in Paris. I didn't tell her what had happened, you may be sure. And she doesn't read the English papers, thank God. Her name is Adèle Siedmyer. She went to school with me, and her father is rich. She gave me a good time, I can tell you, and not a word said. The Siedmyers live in a beautiful house, much better than that old Eagle House, which I always detested. Well, now, I've something to tell you, which is quite important. There was a nice old gentleman who used to come to dinner at the Siedmyers', and I soon saw that he was very fond of me. They told me he was seventy, but he doesn't look more than fifty, for these Frenchmen know how to dress and keep young, which Englishmen never do. He told me all about his life—he'd been twice married, but his wives had treated him abominably—and I felt very sorry for him. I forgot to say he's something in the Stock Exchange—the Bourse, they call it here—and the Siedmyers thought no end of him. Well, I dare say you'll guess the rest. He asked me to marry him. I thought he put it so cleverly; he said it was the entente cordiale. I laughed at first, and then I cried a good deal; for it seemed hard that I should have to marry an old man, even if he is only fifty and a good figure. But what was a poor girl to do? Adèle and the Siedmyers persuaded me, and really it did seem to me quite providential, just in the midst of this disgrace; and it's not as though he didn't love me, for he's perfectly infatuated over me. I know you'll sneer, you always were good at that. But I don't care. There's one thing I always made my mind up to—it was that I wouldn't be poor. And, as I said, it did really seem quite providential, just when I couldn't hope to marry well in England, because of father's wickedness, that M. Simon—that's his name—should fall in love with me. I was dreadfully afraid at first that he'd ask awkward questions about father, but he never did, though he must have known something. Of course I didn't tell him—not likely. So the upshot of it is that we were married last week. So now you know. I thought I ought to tell you, and you can tell father, if you like. You needn't expect me ever to come to London again—horrid, hateful city! If you like to come over to Paris some time, of course I'll see you; but I won't see father! I draw the line at that. And I am sure he won't expect it after all the cruel wrong he's done me. I should think he would be too ashamed. If you can find any of my little knick-nacks in my drawers I wish you would pack them up and send them over. But I dare say they're gone—very likely the servants took them; and it doesn't really matter, for I've everything I need. Thank God, I shall not be poor now, in spite of father's wickedness.

"Your sister,
"HELEN.

"P.S.—We are living at the Hotel Continental, for the present. If you were only sensible I would say come over, and meet Adèle Siedmyer. She will have lots of money when her father dies. But I suppose you prefer digging like a labourer in that nasty Canada. There's no accounting for tastes, is there?"

Arthur, who, of course, was familiar with the letter, turned his face away while Mrs. Bundy read it, for he was heartily ashamed of it. Its complete selfishness and shallowness, its spite, its rancour, its hard worldliness, above all, its nauseous pietism, had filled him with disgust. He was surprised therefore when Mrs. Bundy put it down, with the exclamation, "Poor child!"