“God bless me,” said Mr Clandon, who was a very thrifty person. “What a frightful incubus! Then I take it your fiancé won’t get very much from that quarter?”
“Very little, I expect. But he will inherit a large fortune from his great-aunt, Lady Henrietta, a very old lady, over eighty.”
The Head of the Family looked relieved. He gazed with a certain respectful admiration at his good-looking niece. He had always recognised that she was a very pretty girl. At the present moment, grief had made great inroads on her good looks. But he thought somewhat sorrowfully of his own large family of girls, who were rather of the dumpling-faced order. They would have to seek their mates amongst the small squirearchy.
“I suppose my poor brother made a will?” was Mr Clandon’s next question.
“Oh, yes, he made his will years ago, after my mother’s death,” was Isobel’s answer. “He left her everything. When she died, he left me everything.”
“Quite right and proper,” observed Mr Clandon. He was very dull, but quite an upright and just person. He was relieved to find that his brother was more business-like than he thought. “And he has appointed executors, I suppose?”
“Yes, two—a very old friend, and my cousin, Maurice Farquhar.”
“Ah, Maurice Farquhar, Anne’s son! Yes, of course, your father and Anne were always great comrades. Maurice is getting on very well at the bar, I hear. You have seen a lot of him, I suppose. Somehow, we seemed to lose sight of Anne. We were such a big family, you know; and big families get scattered.”
Uncle Clandon had not the delicacy of Maurice or Lady Mary. He cordially accepted Isobel’s invitation to put him up. He was a very thrifty and careful person, and had no fancy to waste his money in expensive hotels, now that he knew his niece was left comfortably off.
The General was buried amongst his forbears in the family vault. When the sad business was over, Lady Mary took Isobel away to Ticehurst Park.