“I wonder who reminded my lord of the old servants?” she said. “He would never have heart enough to remember them himself!” Agnes suddenly interposed. Nature, always abhorring monotony, institutes reserves of temper as elements in the composition of the gentlest women living. Even Agnes could, on rare occasions, be angry. The nurse’s view of Montbarry’s character seemed to have provoked her beyond endurance. “If you have any sense of shame in you,” she broke out, “you ought to be ashamed of what you have just said! Your ingratitude disgusts me. I leave you to speak with her, Henry—_you_ won’t mind it!” With this significant intimation that he too had dropped out of his customary place in her good opinion, she left the room. The nurse received the smart reproof administered to her with every appearance of feeling rather amused by it than not. When the door had closed, this female philosopher winked at Henry. “There’s a power of obstinacy in young women,” she remarked. “Miss Agnes wouldn’t give my lord up as a bad one, even when he jilted her. And now she’s sweet on him after he’s dead. Say a word against him, and she fires up as you see. All obstinacy! It will wear out with time. Stick to her, Master Henry—stick to her!” “She doesn’t seem to have offended you,” said Henry. “_She?_” the nurse repeated in amazement—“she offend me? I like her in her tantrums; it reminds me of her when she was a baby. Lord bless you! when I go to bid her good-night, she’ll give me a big kiss, poor dear—and say, Nurse, I didn’t mean it! About this money, Master Henry? If I was younger I should spend it in dress and jewellery. But I’m too old for that. What shall I do with my legacy when I have got it?” “Put it out at interest,” Henry suggested. “Get so much a year for it, you know.” “How much shall I get?” the nurse asked. “If you put your hundred pounds into the Funds, you will get between three and four pounds a year.” The nurse shook her head. “Three or four pounds a year? That won’t do! I want more than that. Look here, Master Henry. I don’t care about this bit of money—I never did like the man who has left it to me, though he _was_ your brother. If I lost it all to-morrow, I shouldn’t break my heart; I’m well enough off, as it is, for the rest of my days. They say you’re a speculator. Put me in for a good thing, there’s a dear! Neck-or-nothing—and _that_ for the Funds!” She snapped her fingers to express her contempt for security of investment at three per cent. Henry produced the prospectus of the Venetian Hotel Company. “You’re a funny old woman,” he said. “There, you dashing speculator—there is neck-or-nothing for you! You must keep it a secret from Miss Agnes, mind. I’m not at all sure that she would approve of my helping you to this investment.”