"Four of us, there were, all bosom friends, and they called us the Four Graces in the little town where we were born and brought up; and now I am the only one that is left alive!" said Miss Bellamy, with a little quaver in her voice. "There was Ellen Barry; she married your uncle, Jacob Lloyd. Then there was Minna, Jacob's sister, who married your father. The third was Mary Greaves, who married Mr. Ambrose Murray. There seemed to be no husband left for me: but, thank Heaven, I have never felt the need of one!" "It is never too late to make a change for the better," said Gerald, demurely, as he pushed away his plate. "In my case it would have been for the worse. I should only have tormented some poor man's life out of him, and no one can lay that to my charge now." As soon as Eliza had cleared the table, Miss Bellamy put a tiny copper kettle to simmer on the hob, and then produced a bottle of whisky, a lemon, and the other materials necessary for brewing a glass of punch. From another cupboard she brought out a box of cigars, which she had made a special journey into the City to buy. Being no judge of such articles, or their cost, she had brought back a box of what Mr. Piper would have called "duffers." "Snuff-taking among gentlemen is going quite out of fashion nowadays," she had said to herself. "But I've no doubt Gerald is fond of a cigar, and I'll not trouble about the curtains for once." "You don't seem in the least curious about the news I've got to tell you," said Miss Bellamy at last. "No, I'm very comfortable," said Gerald as he sipped his grog, "and more than that a man need not wish to be." "And yet you have come all the way from the south of France to hear it?" "And yet I have come all the way from France to hear it! But I daresay it will keep a little longer." "Just your poor mother's careless way of looking at things," said Miss Bellamy with a smile and a shake of the head. "Just the same easy way that I remember so well." She gazed into the fire for a few moments, her mind far away among the things of the past. "How long did you say that your father has been dead, Gerald?" "A little more than two years." "And no reconciliation ever took place between your uncle Jacob and him?" "None whatever. My father knew he was in the wrong, and that only served to embitter him still more against my uncle. My uncle could neither forgive nor forget my father's cruel treatment of my mother. I believe that if a woman's heart was ever broken, hers was." "Don't talk in that way, Gerald. You must not forget that the man was your father." "Can I ever forget it?" said Gerald, bitterly. "You were my mother's friend, and I tell you distinctly that my father broke her heart. The bitterest tears that ever I shed, or that I ever can shed in this world, were those with which I mourned her loss." "You left home soon afterwards, did you not?"