“H’m,” said old Mr. Mottisfont, “well or ill’s all a matter of opinion, same as religion, or the cut of a dress.” He shut his mouth with a snap, and lay staring at the ceiling. Presently his eyes wandered back to Elizabeth. She was sitting quite still, with her hands folded. Very few busy women ever sit still at all, but Elizabeth Chantrey, who was a very busy woman, was also a woman of a most reposeful presence. She could be unoccupied without appearing idle, just as she could be silent without appearing either stupid or constrained. Old Edward Mottisfont looked at her for about five minutes. Then he said suddenly: “What’ll you do when I’m dead, Elizabeth?” Elizabeth made no protest, as her sister Mary would have done. She had not been Edward Mottisfont’s ward since she was fourteen for nothing. She understood him very well, and she was perhaps the one creature whom he really loved. She leaned her chin in her hand and said: “I don’t know, Mr. Mottisfont.” Mr. Mottisfont never took his eyes off her face. “Edward’ll want to move in here as soon as possible. What’ll you do?” “I don’t know,” repeated Elizabeth, frowning a little. “Well, if you don’t know, perhaps you’ll listen to reason, and do as I ask you.” “If I can,” said Elizabeth Chantrey. He nodded. “Stay here a year,” he said, “a year isn’t much to ask—eh?” “Here?” “Yes—in this house. I’ve spoken about it to Edward. Odd creature, Edward, but, I believe, truthful. Said he was quite agreeable. Even went so far as to say he was fond of you, and that Mary would be pleased. Said you’d too much tact to obtrude yourself, and that of course you’d keep your own rooms. No, I don’t suppose you’ll find it particularly pleasant, but I believe you’ll find it worth while. Give it a year.” Elizabeth started ever so slightly. One may endure for years, and make no sign, to wince at last in one unguarded moment. So he knew—had always known. Again Elizabeth made no protest. “A year,” she said in a low voice, “a year—I’ve given fifteen years. Isn’t fifteen years enough?” Something fierce came into old Edward Mottisfont’s eyes. His whole face hardened. “He’s a damn fool,” he said. Elizabeth laughed. “Of course he must be,” and she laughed again. The old man nodded. “Grit,” he said to himself, “grit. That’s the way—laugh, Elizabeth, laugh—and let him go hang for a damn fool. He ain’t worth it—no man living’s worth it. But give him a year all the same.”