y
that was useless to him.

On the other hand, what Helen had said was both true and convincing; at
any rate, it convinced him.

He was a miser; he admitted it. Being a miser, he saw, was one way of
enjoying yourself, but not the best way. Again, if he really desired to
enrich Helen, how much better to enrich her at once than at an uncertain
date when he would be dead. Dead people can't be thanked. Dead people
can't be kissed. Dead people can't have curious dainties offered to them
for their supper. He wished to keep Helen; but Helen would only stay on
one condition. That condition was a perfectly easy condition for him to
fulfil. After paying eight thousand pounds (or a bit less) for Wilbraham
Hall, he would still have about ten times as much money as he could
possibly require. Of course, eight thousand pounds was a lot of coin.
But, then, you can't measure women (especially when they are good cooks)
in terms of coin. For instance, it happened that he had exactly L8,000
in shares of the London and North Western Railway Company. The
share-certificates were in his safe; he could hold them in his hand; he
could sell them and buy Wilbraham Hall with the proceeds. That is to
say, he could exchange them for Helen. Now, it would be preposterous to
argue that he would not derive more satisfaction from Helen than from
those crackling share-certificates.

Wilbraham Hall, once he became its owner, would be a worry--an awful
worry. Well, would it? Would not Helen be entirely capable of looking
after it, of superintending it in every way? He knew that she would! As
for the upkeep of existence in Wilbraham Hall, had not Helen proved to
him that its cost was insignificant when compared to his income? She
had.

And as to his own daily manner of living, could he not live precisely as
he chose at Wilbraham Hall? He could. It was vast; but nothing would
compel him to live in all of it at once. He could choose a nice little
room, and put a notice on the door that it was not to be disturbed. And
Helen could run the rest of the mansion as her caprice dictated.

The process of argument was over when Helen descended to put the
finishing touches to a breakfast which she had evidently concocted with
Georgiana the night before.

"Breakfast is ready, uncle," she called to him.

He obeyed. Flowers on the table once more! The first since her
departure! A clean cloth! A general, inexplicable tuning-up of the
meal's frame.

You would now,