how can we help it? There is the will.'

Mutimer met her eyes.

'No one knows of it but ourselves, Adela.'

It was not indignation that her look expressed, but at first a kind of
shocked surprise and then profound trouble. It was with difficulty that
she found words.

'You are not speaking in earnest?'

'I am!' he exclaimed, almost hopefully. 'In downright earnest. There's
nothing to be ashamed of.' He said it because he felt that her gaze was
breeding shame in him. 'It isn't for myself, it's for the cause, for
the good of my fellowmen. Don't say anything till you've thought. Look,
Adela, you're not hardhearted, and you know how it used to pain you
to read of the poor wretches who can't earn enough to keep themselves
alive. It's for their sake. If they could be here and know of this,
they'd go down on their knees to you. You _can't_ rob them of a chance!
It's like snatching a bit of bread out of their mouths when they're
dying of hunger.'

The fervour with which he pleaded went far to convince himself; for
the moment he lost sight of everything but the necessity of persuading
Adela, and his zeal could scarcely have been greater had he been
actuated by the purest unselfishness. He was speaking as Adela had
never heard him speak, with modulations of the voice which were almost
sentimental, like one pleading for love. In his heart he despaired of
removing her scruples, but he overcame this with vehement entreaty.
A true instinct forbade him to touch on her own interests; he had not
lived so long with Adela without attaining some perception of the nobler
ways of thought. But as often as he raised his eyes to hers he saw the
futility of all his words. Her direct gaze at length brought him to
unwilling silence.

'Would you then,' Adela asked gravely, 'destroy this will?'

'Yes.'

The monosyllable was all he cared to reply.

'I can scarcely believe you. Such a thing is impossible. You could not
do it.'

'It's my duty to do it.'

'This is unworthy of you. It is a crime, in law and in conscience. How
can you so deceive yourself? After such an act as that, whatever you did
would be worthless, vain.'

'Why?'

'Because no one can do great work of the kind you aim at unless he is
himself guided by the strictest honour. Every word you spoke would be a
falsehood. Oh, can't you see that, as plainly as the light of day? The
results of your work! Why, nothing you could possibly do with all
this money would be one-hal