"Oh, yes--yes!" "Well, I lost some money to Lady Saint George, and the awkward thing is, that she is a distant cousin of Mrs Leigh's; as rich as Croesus the Saint Georges are really. But she hates me--always did--and lately she has made friends with Charles. I wouldn't know Charles, I think a line should be drawn, but she chose to take him up, and actually `confided' to him my little delay. That was mean, and I hate meanness. Well, Charles and his father had one of their pleasant interviews; Charles wanted money as usual, and when my lord couldn't give it him, and complained of his constant drains upon him, he had the audacity to say that he was not the only culprit!" "Oh, mother, can't you pay it?" "I must, my dear child; you see poor, good old Tony has managed hundreds of little affairs for me; but now it will be different, as he has told me." "Did _he_ lend you money?" "My dear, he was good-nature itself. Besides, one can't go oneself and sell one's poor little things. One would be cheated, and it is so much nicer, isn't it, to leave those matters to a man to manage?" "Won't you--ask father?" "My dear child, no! He can't give me any money. It is you, my darling, who must help your poor mother. Will you give up your amethysts at least for a time? They are really of value." "I would give up everything on earth," said Amethyst. "Well then, you will make it all quite easy. I am writing a note to Tony, and you shall just direct it for me, and take it down to the post." "Why should I direct it?" "Why, he is staying at Loseby. Miss Verrequers, his heiress, is a connection of the Riddells, you know, our Riddells' cousins. They are there together. I don't want to appear in the matter at all, but you might be writing to him about your wedding presents. I must be most careful not to make any trouble for him, poor fellow! Miss Verrequers wouldn't understand our friendship." Amethyst felt an instinctive shrinking from directing the letter, though she could hardly tell why. She was confused and puzzled. The whole story was so out of her experience, her mother fascinated her so much, that she could not judge the case on its own merits. "We are going to. Loseby on Thursday," she said, "to a tennis party." "Yes, I know, that will be the opportunity for giving him the amethysts. Come, dearest, and let me give you the note. And, Amethyst, Lucian, of course, mustn't guess at this little _contretemps_. You promise?" Amethyst shrank again. She could not have told Lucian of her mother's-- what?--shame seemed too strong a word--discredit? Yet to promise secrecy towards him went against her, but at her mother's desire, it never struck her that it was wrong.