In the dining-room at the Abbey, in her black robes, sat Mrs. Cray at the head of her table, her elbow resting on it, and a pouting expression on her pretty face. Mark was at the foot, gobbling down his dinner with what haste he could. He had been detained so long beyond the dinner hour that Mrs. Cray in despair had eaten hers; and when Mark at length entered he found a cold face and a cold cutlet. Mrs. Cray was beginning to tire of the irregularity. "I can't help it, Carine," he said, looking at her in a pause of his eating. "My work has been nearly doubled, you know, since the doctor died." "But it's very tiresome, Mark!" "It is. I am nearly sick of it." "It is not _doubled_, your work." "Well, no; one speaks at random. Some of the doctor's older patients have left me: they think, I suppose, I am not sufficiently experienced. But I have a great deal to do just now; more, in fact, than I can attend to properly." Mark resumed his gobbling, and his wife watched him, her lips a little relaxing. Caroline Cray was one of those who must have all things go smoothly; she could not bear to be put out, even is trifles. "Mr. Wheatley has been here, Mark," she presently said. "What did he want?" "Well, he wanted to see you. Something about the selling of my uncle's house." "He is losing no time," observed Mark, acrimony in his tone. "I wonder he didn't begin about it yesterday when we were there, hearing the will read. But what have I do with it?" "He wants us to take the house--to buy it, I think." "I daresay he does," retorted Mark, after a pause of surprise. "Where's the money to come from?" "There's that money of mine. He said it would be a good investment." "Did he! I wonder what business it is of his! Carine, my dear, you and I are quite capable of managing our own affairs, without being dictated to." "Of course we are!" answered Carine, rather firing at the absent Mr. Wheatley, as this new view was presented to her. Mark said no more just then. He finished his dinner, and had the things taken away. Then, instead of sitting down to his wine, his usual custom, he stood up on the hearth-rug, as though he were cold--or restless. Mark Cray had been reared to extravagance in a petted home, and looked for his wine daily, as surely as any old alderman looks for it. Oswald Cray, reared without a home, and to schoolboy fare, adhered still, in a general way, to the water to which he had been trained. Oswald's plan was the most profitable, so far as the pocket was concerned, and the health too. "I say, Carine, I want to go to London for a day." "To London?" echoed Carine, turning her chair to the fire, and facing Mark. "There's the grandest opening: there's the grandest opening for a fortune to be made there. And--Carine--I think I shall quit Hallingham." Mrs. Cray's violet eyes extended themselves in the extreme of wonder. She sat staring at him.