In the succeeding weeks George’s death was the source of other, almost unclouded, joys to Mrs. Winterbourne. She pardoned—temporarily—the most offending of her enemies to increase the number of artistically tear-blotched letters of bereavement she composed. Quite a few of the nearly gentry, who usually avoided Mrs. Winterbourne as a particularly virulent specimen of the human scorpion, paid calls—very brief calls-y-of condolence. Even the Vicar appeared, and was greeted with effusive sweetness; for though Mrs. Winterbourne professed herself a social rebel and an “Agnostic” (not, however, until she had been more or less kicked out of middle-class and Church society) she retained a superstitious reverence for parsons of the Established Church. Another joy was squabbling with Elizabeth Winterbourne, George’s wife, about his poor little “estate” and military effects. When George joined up, he thought he had to give his father as his next-of-kin. Later, he found his mistake and when he went out to France the second time, he gave his wife. The War Office carefully preserved both records, either under the impression that there were two George Winterbournes, or because the original record was never erased, and so became law. At any rate, some of George’s possessions were sent to the country address, and, although directed to the father, were unscrupulously seized by his mother. And the remainder of his military kit and the pay due him went to his wife. Old Mrs. Winterbourne was fearfully enraged at this. Stupid red tape, she said it was. Why! Wasn’t her baby son _hers?_ Hadn’t she borne him, and therefore established complete possession of him and his for the rest of her natural life? What can any woman mean to a _Man_ in comparison with his _Mother?_ Therefore, it was plain that she was the next-of-kin, and that all George’s possessions, including the widow’s pension, should come to her and her only: Q.E.D. She bothered her harassed husband about it, tried to stimulate Sam Browne to action—but he evaporated in a would-be straight, clean letter to Elizabeth, who knocked him out in the first round—and even consulted a lawyer in London. Old Mrs. Winterbourne came back from London in a spluttering temper. “That man” (i.e., her husband) had “insulted” her again, by timidly stating that all George’s possessions ought to be given to his wife, who would doubtless allow them to keep a few “mementos.” And the lawyer—foul brute—had unsympathetically said that George’s wife had a perfect right to sue her mother-in-law for detaining her (Elizabeth’s) property. George’s will was perfectly plain—he had left everything he had to his wife. However, that small amount of George’s property which his mother got hold of, she kept, in defiance of all the King’s horses and writs. And she took, she embraced, the opportunity of telling “that woman” (i.e., Elizabeth) what she thought of her—which, if believed, meant that poor Elizabeth