"But, dear darling, it is not pride; it is antipathy. I cannot help it, it is born in me. There were two West Indian girls at the dancing class, and I could not endure them for partners. I shuddered when our hands met, their touch seemed so boneless and damp." "I tell you, you may be sorry for this sinful feeling, some day." "Yes, indeed, auntie. I'm sorry _now_, but I really can't help myself. I am afraid you are very tired, dear," she continued, again stroking the old lady's withered hand, "that lawyer, Mr. Middlemass, absorbs too much time; he was here for nearly an hour this afternoon. What were you doing?" "I was giving him instructions about my will--he was drawing it up." "But I thought you had made it ages ago." "Oh, yes, several wills. The fact is, lovey," and here she placed her hand over Verona's, "I am superstitious. I've always thought it so unlucky to make my will. Yet I've done it, because Mr. Middlemass has been troublesome, and 'dicked' me so, for your sake. Then when I feel ill, I say to myself, oh, it's all because of this horrid old will, and so I will burn it! I have burned three"--there was a distinct note of exultation in the confession--"now I am mailing," here she heaved a deep sigh, "another." "I'm sure you are not fit to do law business at present; do wait a little." "No, I can not; that Middlemass has been scolding me to-day, and says I ought to settle my affairs, for if I--" she hesitated, and went on--"I were to die, every pice I possess goes to my husband's relations. And then what would become of you, my dearie?" "Do not let us talk of such things, auntie. At present I have you, and you are much better." "I tell him a rich girl has always friends!" mused Madame, as if talking to herself. "You have numbers of friends, Verona, but most of them are abroad. So are your admirers. I am sorry now I've stayed out of England these five years. One is soon forgotten, and loses touch with people. At this time of year, too, our acquaintances are in the country, or on the Riviera. When I feel arl-right, I shall take a big house in town, and give dances, and bridge parties, and entertain--and _then_ my old set will soon remember me." There was a silence, during which the two women sat staring at the fire. At last the girl spoke, with the abruptness of one who has made up her mind to broach a strange topic. "Auntie! I wish you would tell me something about myself. Do, dear auntie! I am two-and-twenty years of age, and I know nothing of what is called, my forbears. If anyone were to say to me, 'Who are you?' I should be obliged to reply, 'I don't know!'" "If you say, 'I am the adopted daughter and heiress of Fernanda de Godez,' you will find they are perfectly satisfied," rejoined her companion, in a sharp emphatic key.