"After all," she said, her words coming out with a pause between each, "we had best, as you say, be friendly in the matter." "Yes; that is just what I think. I can help you if you can help me--" "Won't you stay and have lunch with me?" said Mrs Fortescue suddenly. The Major loathed having lunch anywhere except at home, where he invariably ate a chop specially prepared, and drank a glass of old port. The present occasion was too serious, however, to make him consider either his chop or port. "I shall be delighted to have lunch with you," he said. Mrs Fortescue thought of her cold mutton and the very sour claret which she usually had on the sideboard but never drank. Still, what did food matter? The moment was too important. She reflected with satisfaction that she had one or two bottles of champagne in her wine cellar. She would have one opened for the Major. He was fond of good champagne-- that she knew. Afterwards he would talk to her; they would, as he expressed it, get to understand each other. She left the room to give some directions with regard to lunch, and came back in a few minutes ready to listen to the Major. On purpose, she drew him into other channels of conversation, chatting lightly and agreeably about the girls and about other matters, even going to the length of asking his advice as to what port of town would be the best for her to take a house for the coming season. Lunch, after all, was a poor affair, when it did arrive; but the Major gallantly ate his cold mutton and drank enough champagne to put him into good humour. After the meal was over, they went into the drawing-room again, where excellent black coffee was served, and then the Major found courage to ask Mrs Fortescue that question which was burning on the top of his tongue. "You know," he said, "that my boy Michael could not possibly marry at present, deeply as he loves Florence, were she not an heiress." "I quite understand that," said Mrs Fortescue. "You, my dear madam, probably know something of what her expectations are. She is a very young girl, only eighteen, but there is no sense in her waiting to marry until she is twenty-one; for marriage, as a rule, has an equal effect with coming of age, as far as money is concerned. Can you give me the least idea what she is likely to inherit?"