d
anything myself. Nothing immediate, you understand; but eventually--when
the old governor goes--I don't want to hurry him, Lord knows; but when
the old man does pop off, I shall--bring her here."

I looked round the room. I had seen Miss Collett, and the mahogany and
ormolu dining-room, with its great gilt mirrors, seemed a fitting
background for her.

"I am very glad, dear Tom," said Aunt Emmy. "I think you and she will be
very well suited, and I am sure she is very lucky, though I suppose I
should never think any one _quite_ good enough."

"Oh! that's all right," said Uncle Tom. "And as for the luck, it's all
on my side."

He did not really think this, I knew, but it was the right thing to say,
so he said it.

"But I am not thinking only of myself," he continued. "There is you to
be considered."

Aunt Emmy dropped her eyes.

"You mean, where I shall live," she said faintly.

"Just so. Just so. You speak like a sensible woman. We must not forget
you." Uncle Tom was becoming visibly uneasy. "And I may as well tell you
now, old girl--prepare your mind beforehand, don't you know--that the
governor has not been able to leave you as much as he wished, as we
_both_ wished. The truth is, what with one thing and another, and nearly
all his capital tied up in the business, and this house on a long lease
and expensive to keep up, with the best will in the world the poor old
pater _can't_ do much for you."

"It will be enough," said Aunt Emmy.

"It will be the interest of seven thousand pounds at three and a half
per cent.," said Uncle Tom brutally, because he was uncomfortable,
"about two hundred and thirty pounds a year."

"It will be ample," said Aunt Emmy. I knew by the faint colour in her
cheeks that the conversation was odious to her. "Dear Tom, let us talk
of something else."

"We will," said Uncle Tom, with unexpected mental agility, and with the
obvious relief of a man who has got safely round a difficult corner. "We
will. Now, how about Colonel Stoddart?"

My heart beat suddenly. I was beginning to see life--at last.

"There is nothing to say about him," said Aunt Emmy.

"A good chap, and a gentlemanly chap," said Uncle Tom urbanely, leaning
back in his chair. "Eton, the 'varsity, and all that sort of thing.
Quite one of ourselves. Old family, and a warm man. And suitable in age.
_My_ age. Thirty-nine. (Uncle Tom was really forty-one.) You're no
chicken yourself, you know, Emmy. Thirty-eight, thoug