o my hands----"

"Lady Randolph, you cannot surely think what you are doing. At the
worst," said the distressed trustee, "this was meant to be a fund
for--beneficence all your life: not to be squandered away, thousands and
thousands in a day----"

"Is it squandered when it gives comfort--perhaps even happiness? And
how do you know how long my life may last? It may be over--in a day----"

"You are ill," said the lawyer. "I thought so the moment I saw you. I
felt sure you were not up to business to-day."

"I don't think I am ill," said Lucy; "a little tired, for I was late
last night--did not you know we had a ball, a very pretty ball?" she
added, with a curious smile, half of gratification, half of mockery. "It
was a strange thing to have, perhaps, just--at this moment."

"A very natural thing," said Mr. Chervil. "I am glad to know it; you are
so young, Lady Randolph, pardon me for saying so."

"It was not for me," said Lucy; "it was for a young lady--my
husband's----"

Was she going out of her senses? What was she about to say?

"A relation?" said Mr. Chervil. "Perhaps the young lady for whom you
interested yourself so much in a more important way? They are fortunate,
Lady Randolph, who have you for a friend."

"Do you think so? I don't know that any one thinks so." She recovered
herself a little and pointed to the papers. "You will carry that out,
please. I may be going away. I am not quite sure of my movements. As
soon as you can you will carry this out."

"Going away--at the beginning of the season!"

"Oh, there is nothing settled; and besides you know life--life is very
insecure."

"At your age it is very seldom one thinks so," said the lawyer, at which
she smiled only, then rose up, and without any further remark went away.
He saw her to her carriage, not now with any recollection of the
pleasant show and the exhibition of so fine a client to the admiration
of his neighbours. He had a heart after all, and daughters of his own;
and he was troubled more than he could say. He stood bare-headed and saw
her drive away, with a look of anxiety upon his face. Was it the same
bee in her bonnet which old Trevor had shown so conspicuously? was it
eccentricity verging upon madness? He went back to his office and wrote
to Sir Tom, enclosing a copy of Lucy's list. "I must ask your advice in
the matter instead of offering you mine," he wrote. "Lady Randolph has a
right, of course, if she chooses to press matters to