If Roland Tresham has entertained any hope that, on hearing of his difficulty, his rich sister will offer to lend or give him the money, which would be a trifle out of her pocket, he has reckoned without his host. She likes Roland in her way, and is always pleased to see him in her house, but the woman and the children may starve for aught she will do to help them. She considers them only in the light of a burthen and disgrace. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t live on two hundred a-year,’ she answers shortly. ‘Of course it is very little, but if your wife were worth her salt she would make you comfortable on it. But that is what comes of marrying a beauty. They’re seldom good for anything else.’ ‘There’s not much beauty left about Juliet now,’ replies Roland Tresham, ‘but I don’t think it is entirely her fault. The children worry her so, she has no energy left to do anything.’ ‘It’s a miserable plight to be in,’ sighs the Honourable Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, ‘and I can see how it tells upon your health and spirits. What do you propose to do?’ ‘_Do!_ I should like to hang myself. Do you think there is any chance, Valeria, of your husband getting me a foreign appointment? I don’t care where it is. I would go out to the Fiji Islands, or Timbuctoo, or to the devil himself, to get away from it all.’ ‘And leave them at home?’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks. ‘Yes! Juliet should have the two hundred, and I would keep myself. Perhaps if she had only the children to look after, she might get on better. And the happiest thing for me would be, never to return!’ ‘I will ask Mr Carnaby-Hicks about it,’ replies his sister. ‘If it is to be done at all, it must be before Parliament is prorogued. But I wouldn’t lose all hope with regard to Ralph on account of Lady Tresham’s letter. When he returns he can hardly refuse to lend you such a trifling sum as fifty pounds.’ It does not seem to occur to her that she would miss the money as little as Sir Ralph himself. ‘I shall not ask him a second time,’ says Roland, ‘nor Lady Tresham either. They may keep their money to themselves. But how a father can justify to himself the fact of leaving ten thousand a-year to one son, and two hundred to the other, beats me altogether!’ ‘The money must go with the baronetcy,’ remarks his sister coolly, ‘and your portion was only intended to supplement your professional income. You ought to have made a competency by this time, Roland. You would have done so, had you not hampered yourself in such a reckless manner!’ At this moment the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a young lady, dressed in the height of the reigning fashion. ‘My husband’s niece, Miss Mabel Moore,’ says Mrs Carnaby-Hicks, and then extending a hand to the girl, she draws her forward. ‘Mabel, dear, this is my younger brother, of whom you have heard me speak. Ring the bell and let us have tea. Roland and I have had a long conversation, and I feel quite fatigued.’