“Indeed there isn’t anything I can tell—not yet.”

Then Lady Ball remained silent at the bed-head for the space, perhaps, of ten minutes, meditating over it all. If her son was, in truth, engaged to this woman, at any rate she would find that out. If she asked a point-blank question on that subject, Margaret would not be able to leave it unanswered, and would hardly be able to give a directly false answer.

“My dear,” she said, “I think you will not refuse to tell me plainly whether there is anything between you and John. As his mother, I have a right to know?”

“How anything between us?” said Margaret, raising herself on her elbow.

“Are you engaged to marry him?”

“Oh, dear! no.”

“And there is nothing of that sort going on?”

“Nothing at all.”

“You are determined still to refuse him?”

“It is quite out of the question, aunt. He does not wish it at all. You may be sure that he has quite changed his mind about it.”

“But he won’t have changed his mind if you have given up your plan about your sister-in-law.”

“He has changed it altogether, aunt. You needn’t think anything more about that. He thinks no more about it.”

Nevertheless he was thinking about it this very moment, as he voted for accepting a doubtful life at the Abednego, which was urged on the board by a director, who, I hope, had no intimate personal relations with the owner of the doubtful life in question.

Lady Ball did not know what to make of it. For many years past she had not seen her son carry himself so much like a lover as he had done when he sat himself beside his cousin pressing her to drink her glass of sherry. Why was he so anxious for her comfort? And why, before that, had he been so studiously reticent as to her affairs?

“I can’t make anything out of you,” said Lady Ball, getting up from her chair with angry alacrity; “and I must say that I think it very ungrateful of you, seeing all that I have done for you.”

So saying, she left the room.

What, oh, what would she think when she should come to know the truth? Margaret told herself as she lay there, holding her head between her hands, that she was even now occupying that room and enjoying the questionable comfort of that bed under false pretences. When it was known that she was absolutely a pauper, would she then be made welcome to her uncle’s house? She was now remaining there without divulging her circumstances, under the advice and by the authority of her cousin; and she had resolved to be guided by him in all things as long as he would be at the trouble to guide her. On whom else could she depend? But, nevertheless, her position was very grievous to her, and the more so now that her aunt had twitted her with ingratitude. When the servant came to her, she felt that she had no right to the girl’s services; and when a message was brought to her from Lady Ball, asking whether she would be taken out in the carriage, she acknowledged to herself that such courtesy to her was altogether out of place.