A dark little office in Dublin.... So much the "Lots" had fetched, so
much the balance at the bank; no investments, it was to be feared; no
insurance, my dear Miss Humfray; so much the bills and other claims on
the estate.... "Don't wish to be bothered with figures? Of course not,
my dear.... And then we come to the balance--I'm afraid a few pounds,
practically nothing...."



V.

On the steamer bound for Holyhead.... During the crossing the stifling
weight that had benumbed her intellect ever since the man with the
dent in his hat came riding up the drive seemed suddenly to lift.
Whipped away perhaps by the edged wind that rushed past her from
England to Ireland sinking in the sea--a wind to cut you to the bone;
discovering sensation in every marrow; stinging her to clear
thought.... That idyllic life with Mother and Dad--the world to one
another and none else in the world beside--had been rather the
creation of circumstance than of design. Dad's people were furious
when he married Mother; in defiance of hers, Mother married Dad.
Relations on either side had shrieked their disapproval of the match,
then left the couple to their own adventures. A thing to laugh at in
those days, but bringing now to the child that was left the
realisation of not a support in the world.

Her mother's sisters had written after the funeral inviting her to
come to them in England "while she looked about her." She could recall
every sentence of that letter. It had burned. Each word, each comma