“And won’t he do anything for you? If he is rich he might do something temporarily, even if he won’t make you a permanent allowance. Has he done nothing?” Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly. “He sent me some port wine, my love, but port wine is always pernicious to me; I wrote and told him so, but he did not even reply. It is not four years ago since he was Lord Mayor of London, and yet he will do nothing for me.” She had lost her air of distress, there was a dogged dignity in her manner; she stood up and looked at her niece; it seemed as if, in speaking of Sir William Rammage, she remembered that the world had used her shamefully, and she had determined to give it back bitter scorn for its indifference to her griefs. “Lord Mayor of London,” Mrs. Hibbert repeated, and rubbed her eyes a little; it seemed like part of a play and not a very sane one—the old lady, her deep mourning, her winking left eye, and the sudden introduction of a Lord Mayor. “Yes, Lord Mayor of London,” repeated Mrs. Baines, “and he lets me work for my daily bread.” “Is Walter also related to the Lord Mayor?” “No, my love. Your Walter’s grandfather married twice; I was the daughter of the first marriage—my mother was the daughter of a London merchant—your Walter’s father was the son of the second marriage.” “It is too complicated to understand,” Florence answered in despair. “And is there no one else, Aunt Anne?” “There are many others, but they are indifferent as he is, they are cold and hard, Florence; that is a lesson one has to learn when fortune deserts one,” and the old lady shook her head mournfully. “But, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said, aghast at this sudden vista of the world, “tell me who they are besides Sir William Rammage; let Walter try what can be done. Surely they cannot all be as cold and hard as you think.” “It is of no use, my love,” Mrs. Baines said sadly. “But perhaps you are mistaken, and they will after all do something for you. Do tell me who they are.” Mrs. Baines drew herself up proudly; the tears that had seemed to be on their way a minute ago must have retreated suddenly, for her eyes looked bright, and she spoke in a quick, determined voice. “My love,” she said, “you must not expect me to give you an account of all my friends and relations and of what they will or will not do for me. Don’t question me, my love, for I cannot allow it—I cannot indeed. I have told you that I am destitute, that I am a widow, that I am working for my living; and that must suffice. I am deeply attached to you and Walter; there is in my heart a picture that will never be effaced of you and him standing in our garden at Rottingdean, of your going away in the sunshine with flowers and preserve in your hands—the preserve that I myself had made. It is because I love you that I have come to you to-day, and because I feel assured that you love me; but you must remember, Florence, that I am your aunt and you must treat me with proper respect and consideration.”