As he told his sister-in-law a moment ago, he was at his last gasp. He
had perhaps just begun to realize that he would never succeed through
the force of his own individuality. Therefore, money had become a still
more imperative necessity to him. He was past forty now. Disappointed
ambition and an ever rebellious spirit had left severe imprints on his
face: his figure was growing heavy, his prominent lips, unadorned by a
mustache, had an unpleasant downward droop, and lately he had even
noticed that the hair on the top of his head was not so thick as of
yore.

The situation was indeed getting desperate, since Lady Sue would be of
age in three months, when all revenues for her maintenance would cease.

"Methinks her million will go to one of those young jackanapes who hang
about her," sighed Mistress de Chavasse, with almost as much bitterness
as Sir Marmaduke had shown.

Her fortunes were in a sense bound up with those of her brother-in-law.
He had been most unaccountably kind to her of late, a kindness which his
many detractors attributed either to an infatuation for his brother's
widow, or to a desire to further irritate his uncle the Earl of
Northallerton, who--a rigid Puritan himself--hated the play-actress and
her connection with his own family.

"Can naught be done, Marmaduke?" she asked after a slight pause, during
which she had watched anxiously the restless figure of her
brother-in-law as he paced up and down the narrow hall.

"Can you suggest anything, my dear Editha?" he retorted roughly.