Enid was thinking of a casual remark of her father's made that morning at breakfast: "Oh yes, the Corystons are an old family. They were Whigs as long as there were any bones to pick on that side. Then Pitt bought the first Lord Coryston--in his earliest batch of peers--with the title and a fat post--something to do with the navy. That was the foundation of their money--then came the Welsh coal--et cetera." But she kept her recollections to herself. Lady Coryston went on: "We have stood for generations for certain principles. We are proud of them. My husband died in them. I have devoted my life to them. They are the principles of the Conservative party. Our eldest son, as of course you know, departed from them. My dear husband did not flinch; and instead of leaving the estates to Coryston, he left them to me--as trustee for the political faith he believed in; that faith of which your father has been--excuse my frankness, it is really best for us both--and is now--the principal enemy! I then had to decide, when I was left a widow, to whom the estates were to go on my death. Painful as it was, I decided that my trust did not allow me to leave them to Coryston. I made Arthur my heir three months ago." "How very interesting!" said the listener, behind the fan. Lady Coryston could not see her face. "But it is only fair to him and to you," Arthur's mother continued, with increased deliberation, "that I should say frankly, now that this crisis has arisen, that if you and Arthur marry, it is impossible that Arthur should inherit his father's estates. A fresh disposition of them will have to be made." Enid Glenwilliam dropped the fan and looked up. Her color had gone. "Because--Lady Coryston--I am my father's daughter?" "Because you would bring into our family principles wholly at variance with our traditions--and I should be false to my trust if I allowed it." The conscious dignity of pose and voice fitted the solemnity of these final words. There was a slight pause. "Then--if Arthur married me--he would be a pauper?" said the girl, bending forward. "He has a thousand a year." "That's very disturbing! I shall have to consider everything again." Lady Coryston moved nervously. "I don't understand you." "What I _couldn't_ have done, Lady Coryston--would have been to come into Arthur's family as in any way dependent on his mother!" The girl's eyes shone. Lady Coryston had also paled. "I couldn't of course expect that you would have any friendly feeling toward me," she said, after a moment. "No--you couldn't--you couldn't indeed!" Enid Glenwilliam sprang up, entered the summer-house, and stood over her visitor, lightly leaning forward, her hands supporting her on a rustic table that stood between them, her breath fluttering.