“It’s a very different thing, what a thing’s worth and what it’ll fetch,” said Aunt Louisa.
Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle’s stock phrases.
“I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot, and that’ll keep me till I’m twenty-one.”
Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a little present for you,” she answered, smiling shyly.
He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack bulging with sovereigns.
“I couldn’t bear to let you sell your father’s jewellery. It’s the money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.”
Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.
“Oh, my dear, I can’t take it,” he said. “It’s most awfully good of you, but I couldn’t bear to take it.”