wn him he had loved only money. She would
have loved him had he allowed her, and because he did not she bore him
no grudge. She had always regarded her life, sterile and unprofitable
as it was, with humour until now when, like a discarded dress, it had
slipped behind her. She did not see it, even now, with bitterness;
there was no bitterness for anything in her character.

As they walked Uncle Mathew was considering her for the first time. On
the other occasions when he had stayed in his brother's house he had
been greatly occupied with his own plans--requests for money
(invariably refused) schemes for making money, plots to frighten his
brother out of one or other of his possessions. He had been frankly
predatory, and that plain, quiet girl his niece had been pleasant
company but no more. Now she was suddenly of the first importance. She
would in all probability inherit a considerable sum. How much there
might be in that black box under the bed one could not say, but surely
you could not be so relentless a miser for so long a period without
accumulating a very agreeable amount. Did the girl realise that she
would, perhaps, be rich? Uncle Mathew licked his lips with his tongue.
So quiet and self-possessed was she that you could not tell what she
was thinking. Were she only pretty she might marry anybody. As it was,
with that figure ... But she was a good girl. Uncle Mathew felt kind
and tender-hearted towards her. He would advise her about life of which
he had had a very considerable experience, and of which, of course, she
knew nothing. His heart was warm, although it would have been warmer
still had he been able to drink a glass of something before starting
out.

"And what will you do now, my dear, do you think?" he asked.

They had left the deep lanes and struck across the hard-rutted fields.
A thin powder of snow lay upon the land, and under the yellow light of
the winter sky the surface was blue, shadowed with white patches where
the snow had fallen more thickly. The trees and hedges were black and
hard against the white horizon that was tightly stretched like the
paper of a Japanese screen. The smell of burning wood was in the air,
and once and again a rook slowly swung its wheel, cutting the air as it
flew. The cold was so pleasantly sharp that it was the best possible
thing for Uncle Mathew, who was accustomed to an atmosphere of hissing
gas, unwashen glasses, and rinds of cheese.

Maggie did not answer his