em, seated decorously on bright mahogany chairs in the yellow
mansion; a very satisfactory Will, distributing in perfectly adjusted
portions, to his own kinsfolk and nobody else, a very considerable
wealth. Scudamore had listened to it dreamily, with his eyes fixed on an
oily picture, thinking: "My God! What a thing!" and longing to be back
in the carriage smoking a cigar to take the reek of black clothes, and
sherry--sherry!--out of his nostrils. He happened to look at Alicia. Her
eyes were closed; her lips, always sweet-looking, quivered amusedly. And
at that very moment the Will came to her name. He saw those eyes open
wide, and marked a beautiful pink flush, quite like that of old days,
come into her thin cheeks. "Splendid!" he had thought; "it's really
jolly for her. I _am_ glad. Now she won't have to pinch. Splendid!" He
shared with her to the full the surprised relief showing in her still
beautiful face.

All the way home in the carriage he felt at least as happy over her good
fortune as over his own, which had been substantial. He took her hand
under the rug and squeezed it, and she answered with a long, gentle
pressure, quite unlike the clutch when they were driving in. That same
evening he strolled out to where the river curved below the Abbey. The
sun had not quite set, and its last smoky radiance slanted into the
burnished autumn woods. Some white-faced Herefords were grazing in lush
grass, the river rippled and gleamed, all over golden scales. About
that scene was the magic which has so often startled the hearts of
painters, the wistful gold--the enchantment of a dream. For some minutes
he had gazed with delight which had in it a sort of despair. A little
crisp rustle ran along the bushes; the leaves fluttered, then hung quite
still. And he heard a voice--Alicia's--speaking. "My lovely, lovely
world!" And moving forward a step, he saw her standing on the
river-bank, braced against the trunk of a birch-tree, her head thrown
back, and her arms stretched wide apart as though to clasp the lovely
world she had apostrophised. To have gone up to her would have been like
breaking up a lovers' interview, and he turned round instead and went
away.

A week later he heard from his brother that Alicia had refused her
legacy. "I don't want it," her letter had said simply, "I couldn't bear
to take it. Give it to those poor people who live in that awful place."
Really eccentricity could go no further! They decided to go d