"Seven hundred a year till I come into my aunt's money. After that, of course, our marriage was to be acknowledged, and we would live together."
"I see," said Hugh, assuming a cheerfulness he did not quite feel. "Well, I should not say she would try for more than her seven hundred a year at present. When your aunt dies she will of course fight for a bit more. I take it, after to-night's work, you will never want to live with her, cajoling and attractive as she is."
Pomfret shuddered. "After what that fellow said, my love for her died. But, by Heaven, Hugh, I did love her while I believed in her."
"Of course, of course. Have you signed any document about that seven hundred, by the way?"
"Not yet. My solicitor is sending me the document to-day, it will reach me to-morrow morning."
"It will make it a little easier to deal with her, then. Are you going to leave yourself in my hands? I don't think she will be very full of fight for the next few days."
"Certainly I will, Hugh. Do your best for me. I never want to see her again, of that you may be sure."
Murchison reflected deeply before he spoke again. "I doubt if she will trouble you very much. It won't be very difficult to compromise with her, she has too much to hide. And now for yourself."
"Yes," groaned the unhappy Pomfret, in a hollow voice. "And now for myself. What do you suggest?"
"There's only one thing to do, and that is to put the past behind you. As long as this woman lives, you can never marry. But many men go through life and remain bachelors, and are not altogether unhappy. You must make up your mind to be one of the bachelors, Jack."