"In any case," observed the young man, "you have no right to say he would accept money from—from anyone—from a stranger."
Then Lord Musselburgh did look up—struck by something in his companion's tone.
"Did I say that? I'm sure I don't know. Of course it was on account of the book that I ventured to give him some little help—oh, yes, certainly—I should not have ventured otherwise. If he had been offended, I dare say he would have said so; but I fancy the old gentleman has had to overcome his pride before now. He seems to have led a curious, wandering life. By the way, Vin, weren't you very much impressed by the young lady—I remember your saying something—"
Fortunately there was no need for Vincent to answer this question; for now there began a general movement on the part of the remaining guests to go upstairs to the drawing-room; and in this little bit of a bustle he escaped from further cross-examination.
When at the end of the evening all the people had gone away, and when Harland Harris had shut himself up in his study to finish his correspondence—for he was going down the next morning to a Congress of Co-operative Societies at Ipswich—Mrs. Ellison and her nephew found themselves alone in the drawing-room; and the fair young widow must needs return to the subject she had been discoursing upon at dinner—namely, that this young man, in order to guard against pitfalls and embroilments, should get married forthwith.
"You seem anxious that I should marry," said he, bluntly; "why don't you get married yourself?"
"Oh, no, thank you!" she replied, with promptitude. "I know when I have had—" Apparently she was on the point of saying that she knew when she had had enough; but that would not have been complimentary to the memory of the deceased; so she abruptly broke off—and then resumed. "It isn't necessary for me to make any further experiments in life; but for you, with such a splendid future before you, it is a necessity. As for me, I mean to let well alone. And it is well—very well. I do believe, Vin, that I am the only woman on this earth—"
"What?" he said.
"—who is really contented. I am too happy. Sometimes I'm afraid; it seems as if I had no right to it. Why, when I come downstairs in the morning, and draw an easy-chair to the open windows—especially when there is a breeze coming off the sea, and the sun-blinds are out, and the balcony nicely shaded, you know—I mean at home, in Brunswick Terrace—well, when I take up the newspaper and begin to read about what's going on—as if it was all some kind of a distant thing—I feel so satisfied with the quiet and the coolness and the sea-air that I am bound to do a little kindness to somebody, and so I turn to the columns where appeals are made for charity. I don't care what it is; I'm so well content that I must give something to somebody—distressed Irish widows, sailors' libraries, days in the country, anything. I dare say I sometimes give money where I shouldn't; but how am I to know?—and at any rate it pleases me."
"But why shouldn't you be happy, aunt?" said the young man. "You are so good-humoured, and so kind, and so nice to look at, that it is no wonder you are such a favourite, with men especially."