"Everything was in the most frightful confusion; no one knew why he had done it."

"But there was the verdict!"

"The verdict? My uncle was not a man to kill himself for a shadow; there might be a better reason. Say nothing to your father; I wish to impute nothing against my uncle's credit; but at one time it seemed just possible that he had done it, because he knew he was ruined, to save himself from shame, dishonour. We had to find out, to be certain, to make sure; we went all through the books; we went through everything; we were at it till the small hours of the morning."

"My dear! Did they tell you I had called?"

"Did they not! When I heard it I wished that I could have flown to you on a flying machine; but it was impossible."

"But papa tells me that you talk about going to the office every day this week."

"Stella, let me put a case. Suppose Mr. Austin were my uncle, and he had done what my uncle did, and everything were at sixes and sevens, and all the help was wanted that could be got, what would you think of me if I were to cut and run--it would amount to that!--even for the sake of the best and sweetest and prettiest and dearest girl in the world--meaning you?"

"That's all very well, Rodney; but I asked papa if he thought you really had to go--if you ought to go; and he said that so far as he could make out there wasn't the least necessity why you should ever set foot in the office again."

"Your father said that?"

"And I believe he's been making inquiries."

"Has he? When I see your father I shall have to tell him that this is a matter in which I am afraid I shall have to use my own judgment."

"At least you can get one day off to take me out--say to-morrow."

"To-morrow! It's my uncle's funeral."

"Well? There's no reason why you should go to it, if it is. Who expects you to go?"

For a moment it seemed as if the question had left the ready-tongued young gentleman nonplussed; but it was only for a moment.

"My dear Stella, isn't it sufficient answer to say that my uncle was the only relative I have in the world?"

"My dear Rodney, I don't wish to comment on your sudden sensitiveness where your uncle is concerned. I never dreamt that you felt for him what you seem to feel; but I suppose your connection with him will cease when he is buried?"

"In a sense, certainly."

"In all senses?"

"My dear Stella, I have already told you."

"To whom has he left his business?"

"Until the contents of the will are known who can say--positively?"

"Has he left it to you?"

"That I am quite sure he hasn't."

"Has he left you anything?"

"There again, till the will is read, who can be sure?"

"When is the will to be read?"

"To-morrow, after the funeral."

"Where?"

"At his house in Russell Square."

"Are you invited to be present?"

"'Invited' is scarcely the correct word; instructions have been issued that the whole staff is to attend. That rather looks as if he may have left something, possibly some trifle, to everyone who was actually in his employ at the time of his death."

"I see. That explains why you want to be present at the funeral. And afterwards, when the will has been read, will you--dine with us? Papa wants me to dine, I think, at the Savoy, to what he calls 'celebrate'

our engagement."

"You may be sure I'll come if I can."

"'If'! It's again 'if.' Is it to be all 'ifs '?"

"My dearest Stella, what do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter. Shall we go to the drawing-room? I think we shall find that the Miss Claughtons and papa are waiting for us there."

The young lady turned as if to leave the room. He caught her by the arm.

"Stella, is it possible, is it conceivable, that you can imagine that what has happened is in the least degree, in any sense my fault? Can you suppose that I would not ten thousand times rather spend every hour of every day with you than do what I have done, what I may still have to do?--that my heart, my thoughts, are not with you every instant I have to spend in that confounded City?"

"Rodney, I am very anxious to believe that there are sufficient reasons which compel you to spend all the time you seem to spend in the City; but you don't manage to make it very clear what they are."

"Stella! Stella! How can you talk like that? What shall I say? What can I do?"

"You can promise to dine with us to-morrow night."

"I gladly promise it--gladly."

"There's no 'if' about the promise?"

"No 'if'! If you only knew how I shall look forward to coming, what pleasure I shall give myself in coming! My dear, if you only knew how I am looking forward to dining with you all the days of all the year!"

"And, Rodney, papa understand that you are coming into his business; is that what you understand?"

"Rather! You bet it is, if he'll have me. Do you think I'd throw away a chance like that?"

"Nothing that may be in your uncle's will will make any difference?"

"You goose! What do you suppose will be there? The probability is that there will be nothing of the slightest interest to me--at the most some trivial legacy--a hundred, fifty, five-and-twenty pounds! But let me tell you this, that in the present state of my exchequer even the latter sum will be a G.o.dsend. You don't know what it is to be in a chronic state of impecuniosity--a little millionaire like you!"

"I, a millionaire!"