“Uncle’s boss here.” “A man that’s dying, and you crawling round and working on him for his money!—you’re not fit to live.” “Oh!” he said. “Who says I’m working for his money?” “I say. But my father told our Matilda, and _she_ knows what you are. _She_ knows what you’re after. So you might as well clear out, for all you’ll get—guttersnipe!” He turned his back on her, to think. It had not occurred to him that they would think he was after the money. He _did_ want the money—badly. He badly wanted to be an employer himself, not one of the employed. But he knew, in his subtle, calculating way, that it was not for money he wanted Matilda. He wanted both the money and Matilda. But he told himself the two desires were separate, not one. He could not do with Matilda, _without_ the money. But he did not want her _for_ the money. When he got this clear in his mind, he sought for an opportunity to tell it her, lurking and watching. But she avoided him. In the evening the lawyer came. Mr. Rockley seemed to have a new access of strength—a will was drawn up, making the previous arrangements wholly conditional. The old will held good, if Matilda would consent to marry Hadrian. If she refused then at the end of six months the whole property passed to Hadrian. Mr. Rockley told this to the young man, with malevolent satisfaction. He seemed to have a strange desire, quite unreasonable, for revenge upon the women who had surrounded him for so long, and served him so carefully. “Tell her in front of me,” said Hadrian. So Mr. Rockley sent for his daughters. At last they came, pale, mute, stubborn. Matilda seemed to have retired far off, Emmie seemed like a fighter ready to fight to the death. The sick man reclined on the bed, his eyes bright, his puffed hand trembling. But his face had again some of its old, bright handsomeness. Hadrian sat quiet, a little aside: the indomitable, dangerous charity boy. “There’s the will,” said their father, pointing them to the paper. The two women sat mute and immovable, they took no notice. “Either you marry Hadrian, or he has everything,” said the father with satisfaction. “Then let him have everything,” said Matilda boldly. “He’s not! He’s not!” cried Emmie fiercely. “He’s not going to have it. The guttersnipe!” An amused look came on her father’s face. “You hear that, Hadrian,” he said. “I didn’t offer to marry Cousin Matilda for the money,” said Hadrian, flushing and moving on his seat. Matilda looked at him slowly, with her dark-blue, drugged eyes. He seemed a strange little monster to her. “Why, you liar, you know you did,” cried Emmie. The sick man laughed. Matilda continued to gaze strangely at the young man. “She knows I didn’t,” said Hadrian. He too had his courage, as a rat has indomitable courage in the end. Hadrian had some of the neatness, the reserve, the underground quality of the rat. But he had perhaps the ultimate courage, the most unquenchable courage of all. Emmie looked at her sister.