"—who is really contented. I am too happy. Sometimes I’m afraid; it seems as if I had no right to it. Why, when I come downstairs in the morning, and draw an easy-chair to the open windows—especially when there is a breeze coming off the sea, and the sun-blinds are out, and the balcony nicely shaded, you know—I mean at home, in Brunswick Terrace—well, when I take up the newspaper and begin to read about what’s going on—as if it was all some kind of a distant thing—I feel so satisfied with the quiet and the coolness and the sea-air that I am bound to do a little kindness to somebody, and so I turn to the columns where appeals are made for charity. I don’t care what it is; I’m so well content that I must give something to somebody—distressed Irish widows, sailors’ libraries, days in the country, anything. I dare say I sometimes give money where I shouldn’t; but how am I to know?—and at any rate it pleases me." "But why shouldn’t you be happy, aunt?" said the young man. "You are so good-humoured, and so kind, and so nice to look at, that it is no wonder you are such a favourite, with men especially." "Oh, yes," she said, frankly. "Men are always nice to you—except the one you happen to marry; and I’m not going to spoil the situation. At present they’re all sweetness, and that suits me: I’m not going to give any one of them the chance of showing himself an ungrateful brute. When I come downstairs at Brighton, I like to see only one cup on the breakfast-table, and to feel that I have the whole room to myself. Selfish?—then you can make amends by sending something to the Children’s Hospital or the People’s Palace or something of that kind." "Do you know, aunt," he observed, gravely, "what Mr. Ogden says of you? He says that, having robbed Peter, you try to salve your conscience by throwing a crust to Paul." "When did I rob Peter?—what Peter?" she said, indignantly. "You are a capitalist—you have more than your own share—you possess what you do not work for—therefore you are a robber and a plunderer. I am sorry for you, aunt; but Mr. Ogden has pronounced your doom— "Mr. Ogden——!" she said, with angry brows—and then she stopped. "Yes, aunt?" he said, encouragingly. "Oh, nothing. But I tell you this, Vin. You were talking of the proper distribution of wealth. Well, when you come to marry, and if I approve of the girl, I mean to distribute a little of my plunder—of my ill-gotten gains—in that direction: she shan’t come empty-handed. That is, if I approve of her, you understand. And the best thing you can do is to alter your mind and come down to Brighton for a week or two; and I’ll send for the Drexel girls and perhaps one or two more. If you can’t just at present, you may later on. Now I’m going off to my room; and I’ll say good-bye as well as good-night; for I don’t suppose I shall see you in the morning.