“No, not that. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. You have been brought up to certain standards. If you were rich, you would have to change them. The only way to be rich,” said this philosopher who was going to inherit a goodly estate, “is to be born rich, and so not to feel the burden of wealth.” “I suppose so. I wish you would say it all over again for Sam to hear. Not that he would listen.” “And how would you like just to have everything you want by merely calling for it? There is no desire for anything with a rich girl: no trying to get it: no waiting for it: no getting it at last, and enjoying it all the more. Won’t you think of this?” “I will. Yes, I will.” “Put the horrid thought of the money out of your head altogether, and go on with your work. And be happy in it.” She nodded gravely. “I am happy in it. Only, sometimes----” “And remember, please, if there is anything--anything at all that it would please your grandmother to have, let me know. Will you let me know? And will you have the pleasure of giving it to her?” “Yes, I will--I will. And will you come again soon?” “I will call again very soon.” “I will tell granny. It will please her--oh! more than I can say. And you’ll read the book, won’t you, just to please her?” “I will read the book to please her.” “She longs to see you again. And so do I. Oh, Mr. Campaigne--cousin, then--it’s just lovely to hear you talk!” CHAPTER X A DINNER AT THE CLUB Leonard stood looking straight before him when the girl had gone. Well, the omissions so much regretted by Constance seemed to be fully supplied. He was now exactly like other people, with poor relations and plenty of scandals and people to be ashamed of. Only a week ago he had none of these things. Now he was supplied with all. Nothing was wanting. He was richly, if unexpectedly, endowed with these gifts which had been at first withheld. As yet he hardly rose to the situation: he felt no gratitude: he would have resigned these new possessions willingly: the tragedies, the new cousins, the ennobling theory of hereditary sorrow. He remembered the brown-paper parcel which he had promised to read; he tore off the covering. Within there was a foolscap volume of the kind called “scrap-book.” He opened it, and turned over the pages. It was more than half filled with newspaper cuttings and writing between and before and after the cuttings. As he turned the pages there fell upon him a sense of loathing unutterable. He threw the book from him, and fell back upon an easy-chair, half unconscious. When he recovered, he picked up the book. The same feeling, but not so strong, fell upon him again. He laid it down gently as a thing which might do him harm. He felt cold; he shivered: for the first time in his life, he was afraid of something. He felt that deadly terror which superstitious men experience in empty houses and lonely places in the dark--a terror inexplicable, that comes unasked and without cause.