like way of asking the amount
required, which prevented her applying to him often. Still, there was
that long-standing account of Madame Theodore's in the background, and
Mrs. Winstanley felt that it was an account which must be settled
sooner or later. Her disinclination to ask her husband for money had
tended to swell Theodore's bill. She had bought gloves, ribbons, shoes,
everything from that tasteful purveyor, and had even obtained the
somewhat expensive material for her fancy work through Madame Theodore;
a temporary convenience which she could hardly hope to enjoy gratis.

Like all weak women she had her occasional longings for independence,
her moments of inward revolt against the smooth tyrant. The income was
hers, she argued with herself sometimes, and she had a right to spend
her own money as she pleased. But then she recalled her husband's grave
warnings about the future and its insecurity. She had but a brief lease
of her present wealth, and he was labouring to lay by a provision for
the days to come.

"It would be wicked of me to thwart him in such a wise purpose," she
told herself.

The restriction of her charities pained the soft-hearted Pamela not a
little. To give to all who asked her had been the one unselfish
pleasure of her narrow soul. She had been imposed upon, of course; had
fed families whose fathers squandered their weekly wages in the cosy
taproom of a village inn; had in some wise encouraged idleness and
improvident living; but she had been the comforter of many a weary
heart, the benefactor of many a patient care-oppressed mother, the
raiser-up of many a sickly child drooping on its bed of pain.

Now, under the Captain's rule, she had the pleasure of seeing her name
honourably recorded in the subscription list of every local charity:
but her hand was no longer open to the surrounding poor, her good old
Saxon name of Lady had lost its ancient significance. She was no longer
the giver of bread to the hungry. She sighed and submitted,
acknowledging her husband's superior wisdom.

"You would not like to live in a semi-detached villa on the Southampton
Road, would you, my dear Pamela?" asked the Captain.

"I might die in a semi-detached house, Conrad. I'm sure I could not
live in one," she exclaimed piteously.

"Then, my love, we must make a tremendous effort and save all we can
before your daughter comes of age, or else we shall assuredly have to
leave the Abbey House. We might go abroad