“It will be better for you. You may go on living here. But I think of by-and-by settling a good sum on you and the children, and you can live where you like. There will be nothing for you to complain of then. Whatever happens, you will feel secure. Nothing could be done beforehand. Every thing has gone on in a hurry.” Grandcourt ceased his slow delivery of sentences. He did not expect her to thank him, but he considered that she might reasonably be contented; if it were possible for Lydia to be contented. She showed no change, and after a minute he said, “You have never had any reason to fear that I should be illiberal. I don’t care a curse about the money.” “If you did care about it, I suppose you would not give it us,” said Lydia. The sarcasm was irrepressible. “That’s a devilishly unfair thing to say,” Grandcourt replied, in a lower tone; “and I advise you not to say that sort of thing again.” “Should you punish me by leaving the children in beggary?” In spite of herself, the one outlet of venom had brought the other. “There is no question about leaving the children in beggary,” said Grandcourt, still in his low voice. “I advise you not to say things that you will repent of.” “I am used to repenting,” said she, bitterly. “Perhaps you will repent. You have already repented of loving me.” “All this will only make it uncommonly difficult for us to meet again. What friend have you besides me?” “Quite true.” The words came like a low moan. At the same moment there flashed through her the wish that after promising himself a better happiness than that he had had with her, he might feel a misery and loneliness which would drive him back to her to find some memory of a time when he was young, glad, and hopeful. But no! he would go scathless; it was she that had to suffer.