ote for me--twenty years ago. I mustn't
write any more. My eyes are so tired.

"Your grateful DIANA."

He laid down the blurred note, and turned to the enclosure. Then he read
his mother's letter. And he had imagined, in his folly, that his
mother's refinement would at least make use of some other weapon than
the money! Why, it was _all_ money!--a blunderbuss of the crudest kind,
held at Diana's head in the crudest way. This is how the saints
behave--the people of delicacy--when it comes to a pinch! He saw his
mother stripped of all her pretensions, her spiritual airs, and for the
first time in his life--his life of unwilling subordination--he dared to
despise her.

But neither contempt nor indignation helped him much. How was he to
answer Diana? He paced up and down for an hour considering it, then sat
down and wrote.

His letter ran as follows:

"DEAREST DIANA,--I asked you to be my wife, and I stand by my
word. I did not like to say too much about my mother's state
of mind when we were together yesterday, but I am afraid it
is very true that she will withdraw her present allowance to
me, and deprive me of the money which my father left. Most
unjustly, as it has always seemed to me, she has complete
control over it. Never mind. I must see what can be done. No
doubt my political career will be, for a time, much affected.
We must hope it will only be for a time.

"Ferrier and Sir James believe that my mother cannot maintain
her present attitude. But I do not, alack! share their
belief. I realize, as no one can who does not live in the
same house with her, the strength and obstinacy of her will.
She will, I suppose, leave my father's half-million to some
of the charitable societies in which she believes, and we
must try and behave as though it had never existed. I don't
regret it for myself. But, of course, there are many public
causes one would have liked to help.

"If I can, I will come down to Beechcote on Saturday again.
Meanwhile, do let me urge you to take care of your health,
and not to dwell too much on a past that nothing can alter. I
understand, of course, how it must affect you; but I am sure
it will be best--best, indeed, for us both--that you should
now put it as much as possible out of your mind. It may not
be possible to hide the sad truth. I fear it will not be.