He was silent, fallen a-dreaming once again; and again he seemed to
pull himself up short, forcing himself back to the consideration of the
practical needs of the moment.

"As I was saying, Sara, sooner or later you'll have to turn out of the
old Court. It's entailed, and the income with it. But I've a clear four
hundred a year, altogether apart from the Barrow moneys, and that, at my
death, will be yours."

"I don't want to hear about it!" burst out Sara passionately. "It's
hateful even talking of such things."

Patrick smiled, amused and a little touched by youth's lack of worldly
wisdom.

"Don't be a fool, my dear. I shan't die a day sooner for having made
my will--and I shall die a deal more comfortably, knowing that you are
provided for. I promised your mother that, as far as lay in my power,
I would shield you from wrecking your life as she wrecked hers. And
money--a secure little income of her own--is a very good sort of
shield for a women. Four hundred's not enough to satisfy a mercenary
individual, but it's enough to enable a woman to marry for love--and
not for a home!" He spoke with a kind of repressed bitterness, as though
memory had stirred into fresh flame the embers of some burnt-out passion
of regret, and Sara looked at him with suddenly aroused interest.

But apparently Patrick did not sense the question that troubled on her
lips, or, if he did, had no mind to answer it, for he went on in lighter
tones: