The nobility of the girl could not but strike home to Nigel, not only with a sense of admiration, but with a rush of new pain. It made his position with respect to her only the more difficult. Yet, trying to rally, he said— "All that we can do—" and there was a break. "Everything that we have is yours, until—" "Nonsense! How can you talk such nonsense?" cried Fulvia. "Everything I ever had is yours—madre's, I mean!" And she blushed vividly; but the blush passed as she went on—"After all, how can we know? How can we be sure? It is so soon. Things may not be so bad. You cannot have looked into matters fully yet. Don't you think there may be some mistake?" He lifted his face and looked straight at Fulvia. "No; there was a letter for me." "A letter—from—" "My father." "Where?" "In his desk." "Addressed to you?" "Yes—to be opened—after—" "And—telling you about—" "About—what I have told you." "Not saying how it happened?" "Yes. It has been the work of years. Embarrassments always increasing. Borrowing from—yours—to stave off this and that—meaning to repay, and never able. Speculating, failing, getting deeper and deeper into trouble; always hoping things would right themselves somehow, until—until—" "Yes, until—" "A very heavy loss, just after I left home—failure of a speculation, from which he had hoped everything. I think that was his death-blow. He faced the truth then: realised for the first time how things were, and how near your coming of age was. It has been one long misery since. He could never make up his mind to speak." "Poor padre! Better if he had. But madre must not know it now." "She must. We have no choice." "Why?" "Life will be changed to us all. Everything will have to be given up." "Not the Grange! Not college for you!" "Everything." "Oh, I am so sorry. I do mind that." Fulvia sat looking at him, tears in her eyes. "But madre need not know," she repeated. "Madre must not know—all. Not that he was to blame, I mean—if he was to blame. Only that there have been losses, and that we shall all be poor together. You must not let her think anybody can find fault with him. It would almost kill her." Nigel's face was hidden again. How could he say that other thing which had to be said? How put matters right between this noble-hearted girl and himself? Tell her first that her guardian—his father!—had recklessly made away with her money committed to his trust!—then tell her that the dying words of Albert Browning were false; that he loved another, and could not make up to her for the loss, could not offer himself in place of her wealth—even though he had too good reason to fear that she cared for him as for no other human being! All the day through Nigel had been struggling, fighting, praying for strength—had been striving to bring himself to the pitch requisite for those words, so hard to be spoken. At the beginning of this interview he had believed himself to be capable of them. But now—!