“Will you send him to China?”
She sighed bitterly.
“Have a little pity for me,” she said. “I have lost my father; I have lost my mother; I have lost my fortune—and now I am to lose Frank. You don’t like women, I know; but try to help me with a little pity. I don’t say it’s not for his own interests to send him to China; I only say it’s hard—very, very hard on me.”
Mr. Clare had been deaf to her violence, insensible to her caresses, blind to her tears; but under the tough integument of his philosophy he had a heart—and it answered that hopeless appeal; it felt those touching words.
“I don’t deny that your case is a hard one,” he said. “I don’t want to make it harder. I only ask you to do in Frank’s interests what Frank is too weak to do for himself. It’s no fault of yours; it’s no fault of mine—but it’s not the less true that the fortune you were to have brought him has changed owners.”
She suddenly looked up, with a furtive light in her eyes, with a threatening smile on her lips.
“It may change owners again,” she said.
Mr. Clare saw the alteration in her expression, and heard the tones of her voice. But the words were spoken low; spoken as if to herself—they failed to reach him across the breadth of the room. He stopped instantly in his walk and asked what she had said.
“Nothing,” she answered, turning her head away toward the window, and looking out mechanically at the falling rain. “Only my own thoughts.”
Mr. Clare resumed his walk, and returned to his subject.