'Well--you see--it doesn't matter to _her_ in any way--and she doesn't
want it to matter to her. There's nobody in it she cares about.'

'Thanks!' laughed Sarratt. But Nelly still grave, shook her head. 'Oh,
she's not the least like other people. She won't care about you, George,
just because you've married me. And--'

'And what? Is she still angry with me for not being rich?'

And his thoughts went back to his first interview with Bridget
Cookson--on the day when their engagement was announced. He could see
the tall sharp-featured woman now, standing with her back to the light
in the little sitting-room of the Manchester lodgings. She had not been
fierce or abusive at all. She had accepted it quietly--with only a few
bitter sentences.

'All right, Mr. Sarratt. I have nothing to say. Nelly must please
herself. But you've done her an injury! There are plenty of rich men
that would have married her. You're very poor--and so are we.'

When the words were spoken, Nelly had just accepted him; she was her own
mistress; he had not therefore taken her sister's disapproval much to
heart. Still the words had rankled.

'Darling!--when I made you marry me--_did_ I do you an injury?' he said
suddenly, as they were walking again hand in hand along the high green
path with the lake at their feet, and a vision of blue and rose before
them, in the shadowed western mountains, the lower grounds steeped in
fiery light, and the red reflections in the still water.