"But an old gentleman would not hesitate under such circumstances. The entail in itself was a cruelty, and the operation of it on your poor brother's death was additionally cruel." "It is cruel that any one should be poor," argued Clara; "but that does not take away the right of a rich man to his property." There was much more of this sort said between them, till Clara was at any rate convinced that Colonel Askerton believed that she ought to be the owner of the property. And then at last he ventured upon another argument which soon drove Clara out of the room. "There is, I believe, one way in which it can all be made right," said he. "What way?" said Clara, forgetting in her eagerness the obviousness of the mode which her companion was about to point out. "Of course, I know nothing of this myself," he said smiling; "but Mary thinks that you and your cousin might arrange it between you if you were together." "You must not listen to what she says about that, Colonel Askerton." "Must I not? Well; I will not listen to more than I can help; but Mary, as you know, is a persistent talker. I, at any rate, have done my commission." Then Clara left him and was alone for what remained of the afternoon. It could not be, she said to herself, that the property ought to be hers. It would make her miserable, were she once to feel that she had accepted it. Some small allowance out of it, coming to her from the brotherly love of her cousin,--some moderate stipend sufficient for her livelihood, she thought she could accept from him. It seemed to her that it was her destiny to be dependent on charity,--to eat bread given to her from the benevolence of a friend; and she thought that she could endure his benevolence better than that of any other. Benevolence from Aylmer Park or from Perivale would be altogether unendurable. But why should it not be as Colonel Askerton had proposed? That this cousin of hers loved her with all his heart,--with a constancy for which she had at first given him no credit, she was well aware. And, as regarded herself, she loved him better than all the world beside. She had at last become conscious that she could not now marry Captain Aylmer without sin,--without false vows, and fatal injury to herself and him. To the prospect of that marriage, as her future fate, an end must be put at any rate,--an end, if that which had already taken place was not to be regarded as end enough. But yet she had been engaged to Captain Aylmer,--was engaged to him even now. When last her cousin had mentioned to her Captain Aylmer's name she had declared that she loved him still. How then could she turn round now, and so soon accept the love of another man? How could she bring herself to let her cousin assume to himself the place of a lover, when it was but the other day that she had rebuked him for expressing the faintest hope in that direction? But yet,--yet--! As for going to Plaistow, that was quite out of the question.