“It will be preserved, never fear,” declared Valérie flippantly. “They know how essential is secrecy for the safety of their own necks.”
“Don’t be so unsentimental,” urged the old man smiling. “You talk a little too plainly.”
“Merely the truth,” declared she laughing. “But never mind—you prove the will, and the twelve thousand pounds are yours.”
“Agreed. I shall take preliminary steps to-morrow.”
“The sooner the better, you know.”
“Shan’t you live at Coombe?”
“Oh, what an idea!” she exclaimed in ridicule. “How could I live there among all those country busy-bodies and old fogies? I should cut a nice figure as a widow, shouldn’t I? No. When I get the money I shall set up a good house here in London, mourn for a little time, then cast off my sackcloth and ashes.”
“Remember,” he said, “I am to receive twelve thousand pounds. But, really, you make a most charming widow.”
“And you bestow a little flattery upon me as a sort of recognition,” she observed, a trifle piqued at the point of his remark. Then, laughing again, she said lightly, “Well, if I really am so charming as some people tell me, I suppose I ought to be able to keep my head above water in the social vortex. At all events I mean to try.”
“You cannot fail. Your beauty is always fatal to those who oppose you,” he remarked pleasantly.