“Shall I postpone--this business?” said Robert, remarkably interested in observing her. “Thank you, no,” was her reply, as she seated herself further from him than before. “I shall be obliged to you if you will speak plainly and directly, whatever the business is. I have a headache; a long conversation will be disagreeable to me.” “I will speak as directly as possible. At Mrs. Clarendon’s request I have undertaken to make known to you certain facts regarding your--your future, of which, I understand, it has not been deemed necessary to speak hitherto. I have, in short, to tell you what were the provisions of the late Mr. Clarendon’s will; they concern you nearly.” Ada’s aspect was calm, but he saw that her bosom rose and fell in a way which showed an inward struggle. She gave no sign of a wish to speak. “I have here a copy of the will,” he continued, unrolling the paper. “It is long, and of course full of technicalities. Perhaps I shall do best to put the gist of it into a few plain words. To begin then, Mr. Clarendon made you heiress of all but the whole of his real and personal estate, with possession upon your attainment of your majority, or, should you marry before that age, then at your marriage. Under the will two trustees are appointed, gentlemen who were Mr. Clarendon’s friends-- I need not mention their names. Until either of the events which should give you possession, Mrs. Clarendon had the use of Knightswell, with all it contained, and an income from the estate of two thousand pounds a year; this, however, only on condition that she took you into her house and brought you up in every way as her own child, with care for your education such as the trustees should approve. If Mrs. Clarendon declined to accept this condition, or if she married again prior to your entering into possession, her benefit by the will was limited to an annuity of three hundred pounds.” Robert paused. His tone was as matter-of-fact as if he were demonstrating a proposition of Euclid, but a smile had at length risen to his face. It came of his observation of the listener. Ada had closed her eyes; her hands were nervously clasped upon her lap. “You follow this, Miss Warren?” She raised her lids and regarded him. Her bosom had ceased to heave; she seemed to have regained her ordinary state of mind. “I follow it,” she said. “Should you die, unmarried, before the end of your twenty-first year,” Asquith pursued, “the whole of the estate goes to certain very remote connections of Mr. Clarendon.--No other contingency is provided for.” “No other contingency is provided for,” repeated the girl mechanically. “What do you mean by that?” “I mean----” Robert interrupted himself, and resumed in an off-hand way: “Oh, other possible cases which will occur to one thinking the matter over.” Ada appeared to reflect. Her face was turned slightly upwards, and a restful expression had come upon it.