“There is no reason why it should be disagreeable. I may be wrong--I may still be wrong,” cried Lydia. “Oh, don’t speak for a moment that we may hear her step coming back! If he comes with her, then I shall know I am right. A few minutes will make me--I sent Mrs. Harry with a message to him. I thought he would like best, if it was true, to tell her himself. Oh, listen, listen! is there nobody coming? This was the message I sent: ‘Uncle Henry is dead, and he has left his property, and it will all be divided and lost to you if you do not come back.’ Did you hear anything? If he understands that, don’t you see?--you can judge for yourself--I shall be right; and mother, dear mother!” cried Lydia, with an outburst of tears. Mr. Bonamy stood by her confounded. “Uncle Henry is dead, and has left his property? What else could Uncle Henry do? he could not take it with him if he is dead. If he understands that! Well, I do not understand it, that is one thing certain.” “Oh, open one of those dreadful windows; that there may be a little light--a little light!” Lydia cried. The Vice-Consul obeyed quite humbly; he had lost his standing-ground altogether, even the painful bit of soil he had got under his feet this morning. He seemed swimming in a sea of bewildered conjecture. He opened the _persiani_, throwing a broad bar of sunshine across the dark room: and then there ensued another pause. They waited in complete silence, he confounded, shuffling about, taking up things and putting them down, to the exasperation of Lydia’s nerves, who sat bolt upright and pale as her dress, with her eyes fixed upon the door.