“Then we will consider the matter arranged until he is in a condition to attend to it himself or—by the way, would you like to have a cheque at once?” “Perhaps it would be advisable,” Aunt Anne said, but she seemed unable to go on. Try to conceal it as she would, the sudden turn in her fortune was too much for her. “You must forgive me,” she said gently, sitting down, “I have had a journey from the country, and I am not so young as I was years ago;” she looked up with a little smile, as if to belie her words. “Of course,” answered Mr. Boughton, feelingly. “Age is a malady we all inherit if we live long enough. Let me get you a glass of wine; there is some excellent port in the sideboard;” and in a moment he found a decanter and, having filled a glass, handed it to her. But she shook her head while she looked up at him gratefully. “You must forgive me,” she said, “port wine is always pernicious to me.” But he persuaded her to take a little sip, and then the glass was set down beside her while he wrote the cheque. “You will tell dear William,” she said, “when he is well enough, with what solicitude I think of him. And, Mr. Boughton, you must permit me to say how much indebted I feel to your courtesy, and to the consideration with which you have treated me.” Five minutes later Mrs. Baines was walking along Portman Square, feeling like a woman in a dream, or a millionaire carrying his entire capital. She bought some flowers, on her way back, to put on the little dinner table in Portsea Place, and two little red candle-shades, for with characteristic quickness she had noticed the old-fashioned plated candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and remembered that gas above the table was unbecoming; and then she bought a yard or two of lace to wear round her throat, feeling a little ashamed and yet happy while she did so. She thought of her lover, and looked longingly round the shop; but there was nothing that even she could imagine would be an acceptable present to a man. “Welcome, my darling,” she said to him, when he arrived an hour or two later; “this is the first time I have had the happiness of receiving you in a place of my own. I trust our repast will be ready punctually.” “How is Sir William Rammage?” he asked. “In a most precarious condition.” “No better?” “From what I could gather, Alfred, he must be worse,” and she spoke solemnly. “Whom did you see?” “I saw a solicitor, Mr. Boughton.” “That is my uncle; and he said he was worse?” “He was so ill, Alfred, that Mr. Boughton even paid me my quarter’s income out of his own pocket.” A little smile hovered on Mr. Wimple’s face. “You didn’t say anything about me?” “No, my darling; you had desired me not to mention your name and that was sufficient.” “And he paid you out of his own pocket?”