take any care of his
children's interests," said Claud bitterly. "Bringing you up as he has
done, with the right to expect that you were to be properly provided
for, and then leaving you literally paupers--"

"Not LITERALLY paupers," corrected Deb gently. "We shall be quite
independent still. And if you want to insult my father now that he is
dead--the best of fathers, if he did have misfortunes in business and
make mistakes--do it somewhere else, not in this room." "You have no
right to take that tone with me, Deb." "No?" She raised sarcastic
eyebrows, under which her deep eyes gleamed. "Well, I suppose I
haven't--now. I forgot my new place. I am very sorry, Claud"--rising,
and making a gesture with her hands that he had seen before--"very
sorry indeed, that I did not know I was going to be a poor woman and a
nobody when you did me the honour to select me to be your wife. Now
that you have shown me that I am disqualified for the position--" she
held out the big diamond, with a cold smile. "That's vulgar, Deb," he
loftily admonished her, fending off her hand. "You know I am not
actuated by those low motives. DON'T let us have this cheap melodrama,
for pity's sake! Put it on."

But no more would she put it on. He had revealed his disappointment
that she was not something more than herself--that beautiful and
adorable self that she quite knew the worth of--and he had permitted
himself to take liberties of speech with her that she instinctively
felt to be provoked by the circumstance that she was no longer rich and
powerful.

Deb's love was great, but her pride was greater.

CHAPTER XIII.

Deb sat amid the ruins of her home. She occupied the lid of a deal
packing-case that enclosed a few hundreds of books, and one that was
half filled stood before her, with a scatter of odd volumes on the
floor around. The floor, which was that of the once cosy morning-room,
was carpetless; its usual furniture stood about higgledy-piggledy, all
in the wrong places, naked and forlorn. Mr Thornycroft leaned against
the flowerless mantel-shelf, and surveyed the scene, or rather, the
central figure, black-gowned, holland-aproned, with sleeves turned back
from her strong wrists, and a grey smudge on her beautiful nose.

"That cottage that you talk about," said he, "will not hold all those."

"Oh, books don't take any space," she replied brusquely. "They are no
more than tapestry or frescoes. I shall have cases made to fit flat