at last the letter was written, not quite
in those terms, and Stephen at her request reluctantly instructed her as
to the method of giving a Power of Attorney.

"You must arrange everything," she said; "I won't be bothered. Now I
must go. Jones is human, after all. He knew I should want money, and he
sent me quite a lot. And I am going away for a holiday--just to see what
it feels like to be rich."

"You're not going about alone, I hope," said Stephen. And then, for the
first time, he remembered that beautiful young ladies are not allowed to
clear away tea-things in the Temple, without a chaperon--even for their
solicitors.

"No; Constance Grant is with me. You don't know her. I got to know her
at Girton. She's a dear."

"Look here," he said, awkwardly standing behind her as she pinned her
hat and veil in front of his glass, "when you come back I'll come to see
you. But you mustn't come here again; it's--it's not customary." She
smiled at his reflection in the glass.

"Oh, I forgot your stiff English notions! So absurd! Not going to see
one's old friend _and_ one's _solicitor_! However, I won't come where
I'm not wanted----"

"You know----" he began reproachfully; but she interrupted.

"Oh yes, it's all right. Now remember that all my affairs are in your
hands, and when I come back you will have to tell me exactly what I am
worth--between eight and fourteen hundred thousand pounds, they say; but
_that's_ nonsense, isn't it? Good-bye."

And with a last switch of white skirts against the dirty wainscot, and a
last wave of a white-gloved hand, she disappeared down the staircase.

Stephen drew a long breath. "It can't be fourteen hundred thousand," he
said slowly; "but I wish to goodness it wasn't four-pence."

II

The tide was low, the long lines of the sandbanks shone yellow in the
sun--yellower for the pools of blue water left between them. Far off,
where the low white streak marked the edge of the still retreating sea,
little figures moved slowly along, pushing the shrimping-nets through
the shallow water.

On one of the smooth wave-worn groins a girl sat sketching the village;
her pink gown and red Japanese umbrella made a bright spot on the gold
of the sand.

Further along the beach, under the end of the grass-grown sea-wall, a
young man and woman basked in the August sun. Her sunshade was white,
and so were her gown and the hat that lay beside her. Since her
accession to fortune Rosamund Rainham h