splendent in her
scarlet dress and high coiffure, might have been years older than her
cousin. And any stranger watching the face in which the hardness of an
"old campaigner" already strove with youth, would have thought her, and
not Diana, the mistress of the house.

At Diana's question, Fanny's eyes flickered a moment.

"Oh, well, I had lots of things in my mind. But it was the money that
mattered most."

"I see," murmured Diana.

Fanny fidgeted a little with one of the three bead necklaces which
adorned her. Then she broke out:

"Look here, Diana, you've never been poor in your life, so you don't
know what it's like being awfully hard up. But ever since father died,
mother's had a frightful lot of trouble--all of us to keep, and the
boys' schooling to pay, and next to nothing to do it on. Father left
everything in a dreadful muddle. He never had a bit of sense--"

Diana made a sudden movement. Fanny looked at her astonished, expecting
her to speak. Diana, however, said nothing, and the girl resumed:

"I mean, in business. He'd got everything into a shocking state, and
instead of six hundred a year for us--as we'd always been led on to
expect--well, there wasn't three! Then, you know, Uncle Mallory used to
send us money. Well" (she cleared her throat again and looked away from
Diana), "about a year before he died he and father fell out about
something--so _that_ didn't come in any more. Then we thought perhaps
he'd remember us in his will. And that was another disappointment. So,
you see, really mother didn't know where to turn."

"I suppose papa thought he had done all he could," said Diana, in a
voice which tried to keep quite steady. "He never denied any claim he
felt just. I feel I must say that, because you seem to blame papa. But,
of course, I am very sorry for Aunt Bertha."

At the words "claim" and "just" there was a quick change of expression
in Fanny's eyes. She broke out angrily: "Well, you really don't know
about it, Diana, so it's no good talking. And I'm not going to rake up
old things--"

"But if I don't know," said Diana, interrupting, "hadn't you better tell
me? Why did papa and Uncle Merton disagree? And why did you think papa
ought to have left you money?" She bent forward insistently. There was a
dignity--perhaps also a touch of haughtiness--in her bearing which
exasperated the girl beside her. The haughtiness was that of one who
protects the dead. But Fanny's mind was not one that perc