"It's funny how often it rains for weddings." "Very funny." "The tea is ready, sir." As Kate left the room, Mrs. Wickham crossed slowly over to where her husband was standing in front of the window leading to the garden. Her voice shook with emotion. It was evident that she was very near tears. He put his arm around her awkwardly, but with a certain suggestion of protective tenderness. "I've been counting on that money for years," she said, hardly above a whisper. "I used to dream at night that I was reading a telegram with the news of Aunt Louisa's death. And I've thought of all we should be able to do when we get it. It'll make such a difference." "You know what she was. She didn't care twopence for us. We ought to be prepared for the worst," he said soberly. "Do you think she could have left everything to Miss Marsh?" "I shouldn't be greatly surprised." "We'll dispute the will," she said, once more raising her voice. "It's undue influence. I suspected Miss Marsh from the beginning. I hate her. Oh, how I hate her! Oh, why doesn't Wynne come?" A ring at the bell answered her. "Here he is, I expect." "The suspense is too awful." "Pull yourself together, old girl," said Wickham, patting his wife encouragingly on the shoulder. "And I say, look a bit dismal. After all, we've just come from a funeral." Mrs. Wickham gave a sort of suppressed wail. "Oh, I'm downhearted enough, Heaven knows." "Mr. Wynne, sir," said Kate from the doorway. Mr. Wynne, the late Miss Wickham's solicitor, was a jovial, hearty man, tallish, bald and ruddy-looking. In his spare time he played at being a country gentleman. He had a fine, straightforward eye and a direct manner that inspired one with confidence. He was dressed in complimentary mourning, but for the moment his natural hearty manner threatened to get the better of him. "Helloa," he said, holding out his hand to Wickham. But the sight of Mrs. Wickham, seated on the sofa dejectedly enough, recalled to him that he should be more subdued in the presence of such genuine grief. He crossed the room to take Dorothy's hand solemnly. "I didn't have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the cemetery." "How do you do," she said rather absently. "Pray accept my sincerest sympathy on your great bereavement." Mrs. Wickham made an effort to bring her mind back from the all-absorbing fear that possessed her. "Of course the end was not entirely unexpected." "No, I know. But it must have been a great shock, all the same." He was going on to say what a wonderful old lady his late client had been in that her faculties seemed perfectly unimpaired until the very last, when Wickham interrupted him. Not only was he most anxious to hear the will read himself and have it over, but he saw signs in his wife's face and in the nervous manner in which she rolled and unrolled her handkerchief, that she was nearing the end of her self-control, never very great.