'Nothing,' said Mrs. Arundel, 'will ever induce me to speak to him—nothing.'
'Mother, don't be silly,' Elsie cried; 'you don't know what has happened. You must not say such things. You will only be sorry for them afterwards.'
'Never—never. One may forgive such a man, but one can never speak to him, never—whatever happens—never.' The lady looked almost heroic as she waved her right hand in the direction of the man.
'I will go,' said George, 'but not till you have heard me. I am rich—Elsie is rich—we shall not marry into poverty. The whole situation is entirely changed.'
'Changed,' Elsie repeated, taking George's arm.
'My dear George,' said Mrs. Arundel, when she had heard the whole story—and by cross examination persuaded herself that it was true—'you know on what a just basis my objections were founded. Otherwise, I should have been delighted at the outset.—Kiss me, Elsie.—You have my full consent, children. These remarkable events are Providential.—On Mr. Dering's death or retirement, you will step into an enormous practice. Follow his example. Take no partner till old age compels you. Keep all the profits for yourself—all.—My dear George, you should be a very happy man. Not so rich, perhaps, as my son-in-law, Sir Samuel, but above the ordinary run of common happiness. As for the past—— We will now go down to lunch.—There is the bell. These emotions are fatiguing.'