“Have I not made her second to you?” interposed the baronet. “Has she not been banished from her home to please you since you entered it? When I think of her dull, dreary holidays in her school--holidays! the name was a mockery--my soul yearns for my child. Jealous of her, Octavia? What further proofs do you need that I prefer my wife in all things above my child?” “Why,” said Lady Wynde tremulously, a hectic flush burning on either cheek, “look at the magnificent fortune she will have! While, if you should die I have only the pitiful income of four thousand pounds a year.” “Pitiful, Octavia!” “Yes, it _is_ pitiful, compared to Neva’s. You have estates which you can convey away absolutely by will. Why should you not make me independently rich, with property that I can sell if I choose? What you leave to me is to be mine _for life_. What you leave to Neva is hers absolutely. This is monstrous, hateful, unjust!” The baronet regarded his wife in amazement. “You were satisfied with your marriage settlements when they were drawn up, Octavia,” he said. “I was not satisfied even then, but I had no male relatives to speak to you about the matter, and it would have been indelicate for me to have said what I thought. But I hoped you would make things right in a will, as you can easily do. It is _not_ right that such a distinction should be made between a daughter and a wife!” “I am surprised at you, Octavia,” declared the baronet. “Neva inherits her mother’s fortune with something from me, but I cannot undertake to alter my intentions in regard to her. The provisions that were made for my mother are the same as those that have been made for you, and she found them ample. I can promise you nothing more; but, Octavia,” and he smiled faintly, “I have no intention of dying soon, and while I live your income need not to be limited to any certain sum. Let no jealousy of my Neva warp your noble nature, Octavia. I shall love you all the better if you love her.” “Then you decline to make a new will, with further provision for me?” demanded the wife, her eyes downcast, the hectic spot burning fiercely on both cheeks. “You surprise me, Octavia. Why are you so persistent about a subject of which I never dreamed you even thought? I _do_ decline to make further provision for you, but not because I do not love and appreciate you, for I do both. So long as there is no issue to our marriage, the sum settled on you is ample for your own wants. If Providence sends us children, they will be provided for separately. We will let the discussion end here, Octavia, with the understanding that Neva will spend her Easter at Hawkhurst.”