He took a handful of letters from his pocket, and looked through them, while Agnes rang the bell. Returning to him, she noticed a printed letter among the rest, which lay open on the table. It was a “prospectus,” and the title of it was “Palace Hotel Company of Venice (Limited).” The two words, “Palace” and “Venice,” instantly recalled her mind to the unwelcome visit of Lady Montbarry. “What is that?” she asked, pointing to the title. Henry suspended his search, and glanced at the prospectus. “A really promising speculation,” he said. “Large hotels always pay well, if they are well managed. I know the man who is appointed to be manager of this hotel when it is opened to the public; and I have such entire confidence in him that I have become one of the shareholders of the Company.” The reply did not appear to satisfy Agnes. “Why is the hotel called the ‘Palace Hotel’?” she inquired. Henry looked at her, and at once penetrated her motive for asking the question. “Yes,” he said, “it _is_ the palace that Montbarry hired at Venice; and it has been purchased by the Company to be changed into an hotel.” Agnes turned away in silence, and took a chair at the farther end of the room. Henry had disappointed her. His income as a younger son stood in need, as she well knew, of all the additions that he could make to it by successful speculation. But she was unreasonable enough, nevertheless, to disapprove of his attempting to make money already out of the house in which his brother had died. Incapable of understanding this purely sentimental view of a plain matter of business, Henry returned to his papers, in some perplexity at the sudden change in the manner of Agnes towards him. Just as he found the letter of which he was in search, the nurse made her appearance. He glanced at Agnes, expecting that she would speak first. She never even looked up when the nurse came in. It was left to Henry to tell the old woman why the bell had summoned her to the drawing-room. “Well, nurse,” he said, “you have had a windfall of luck. You have had a legacy left you of a hundred pounds.” The nurse showed no outward signs of exultation. She waited a little to get the announcement of the legacy well settled in her mind—and then she said quietly, “Master Henry, who gives me that money, if you please?” “My late brother, Lord Montbarry, gives it to you.” (Agnes instantly looked up, interested in the matter for the first time. Henry went on.) “His will leaves legacies to the surviving old servants of the family. There is a letter from his lawyers, authorising you to apply to them for the money.” In every class of society, gratitude is the rarest of all human virtues. In the nurse’s class it is extremely rare. Her opinion of the man who had deceived and deserted her mistress remained the same opinion still, perfectly undisturbed by the passing circumstance of the legacy.