"Perhaps," said he enigmatically, and passed his hand over his bald head in a weary manner. Then he burst out unexpectedly: "I wish I had never set eyes on your mother. I wish she had been dead and buried before she crossed my path!" "She is dead, so----" "Yes, she is dead, stone dead," he snarled, rising, much agitated, "and don't think you'll ever see her again. If I----" He was about to speak further; then seeing from the wondering look on the girl's face that he was saying more than was wise, he halted, stuttered, and sat down again abruptly, moving the papers with trembling hands. "Leave the past alone," he said hoarsely. "I can't speak of it calmly. It is the past that makes the future," he continued, drumming feverishly on the table with his fingers, "the past that makes the future." Beatrice wondered what he meant, and noticed how weary and worn and nervous he seemed. The man did not love her; he had not treated her as he should have done; and between them there was no feeling in common. Yet he was old, and, after all, had sheltered her in his own grudging way, so Beatrice laid a light hand on his arm. "Mr. Alpenny, you are not young----" "Eighty and more, my dear." The term startled her, and she began to think he must indeed be near the borders of the next world when he spoke so gently. "Well, then, why don't you go to church, and feed the hungry, and clothe the naked? Remember, you have to answer for what you have done, some day soon." Alpenny rose vehemently and flung off her arm. "I don't ask you to teach me my duty, girl," he said savagely. "What I have done is done, and was rightly done. Everyone betrayed me, and money is the only thing that did not. Money is power, money is love, money is joy and life and hope and comfort to me. No! I keep my money until I die, and then----" He cast a nervous look round, only to burst out again with greater vehemence. "Why do you talk of death? I am strong; I eat heartily. I drink little. I sleep well. I shall live for many a long day yet. And even if I die," he snapped, "don't expect to benefit by my death. You don't get that!" and he snapped his fingers within an inch of her nose. "I don't want your money," said Beatrice quietly; "Durban will look after me. Still, you might let me have enough to keep me while I try to find work." "I won't!" "But if you die, I'll be a pauper." "Without a sixpence!" said Alpenny exultingly. "Have I no relatives who will help me?" "No. Your mother came from I know not where, and where she has gone I don't exactly know. She married me and then died. I have kept you----" "Yes--yes. But if my mother was poor and came from where you knew not, why did you marry her?" "My kind heart----" "You haven't got one; it's in your money-chest" "It might be in a woman's keeping, which is a much worse place." Beatrice grew weary of this futile conversation, and rose. "You asked me to see you," she said, with a fatigued air; "what is it you have to say?"