"Was not that woman I saw you with the Cumberland, Mr. North?" "It was Mrs. Cumberland: my early friend. She came in to express her sympathy at my loss. I took it as very kind of her, madam." "I take it as very insolent," retorted madam. "She had some girl with her when she came in. Who was it?" "Some girl!" repeated Mr. North, whose memory was anything but retentive. "Ah yes, I remember: she said her ward was waiting for her." "Who is her ward?" "The daughter of a friend whom they knew in India, madam. In India or Australia; I forget which: George Cumberland was stationed in both places. A charming young lady with a romantic name: Ellen Adair." Madam toyed with the black lace that shielded her face. "You seem to know her, Mr. North." "I have seen her in the road; and in coming out of church. The first time I met them was in Dallory, one day last summer, and Mrs. Cumberland told me who she was. That is all I know of her, madam--as you seem to be curious." "Is she living at Mrs. Cumberland's?" "Just now she is. I--I think they said she was going out to join her father," added Mr. North, whose impressions were always hazy in matters that did not immediately concern him. "Yes, I'm nearly sure, madam: to Australia." "Her father--whoever he may be--is not in Europe then?" slightingly spoke madam, stooping to root up mercilessly a handful of blue-bells. "Her father lives over yonder. That's why the young lady has to go out to him." Madam tossed away the rifled flowers and raised her head to its customary haughty height. The danger had passed. "Over yonder" meant, as she knew, some far-off antipodes. She flung aside the girl and the interlude from her recollections, just as ruthlessly as she had flung the blue-bells. "I want some money, Mr. North." Mr. North went into a flutter at once. "I--I have none by me, madam." "Then give me a cheque." "Nor cheque either. I don't happen to have a signed cheque in the house, and Richard is gone for the day." "What have I repeatedly told you--that you must _keep_ money by you; and cheques too," was her stern answer. "Why does Richard always sign the cheques? Why can't you sign them?" She had asked the same thing fifty times, and he had never been goaded to give the true answer. "I have not signed a cheque since Thomas Gass died, except on my own private account, madam; no, nor for long before it. My account is overdrawn. I shan't have a stiver in the bank until next quarter-day." "You told me that last week," she said contemptuously. "Draw then upon the firm account." He shook his head. "The bank would not cash it." "Why?" "Because only Richard can sign. Oh dear, this is going over and over the old ground again. You'll wear me out, madam. When Richard took the management at the works, it was judged advisable that he should alone sign the business cheques--for convenience' sake, madam; for convenience' sake. Gass's hands were crippled with gout; I was here with my flowers."