She walked away in a dream. She found herself in Lincoln's Inn Fields: she walked all round that great square, also in a dream. The spectre of poverty had vanished. She was rich: she was rich: she had five hundred pounds a year. Between them they would have seven hundred pounds a year. It seemed enormous. Seven hundred pounds a year! Seven--seven--seven hundred pounds a year! She got out into the street called Holborn, and she took the modest omnibus, this heiress of untold wealth. How much was it? Thirteen millions? or thirteen thousand? One seemed as much as the other. Twelve thousand: with accumulations: with accumulations--ations--ations. The wheels of the vehicle groaned out these musical words all the way. It was in the morning when the Bayswater omnibus is full of girls going home to lunch after shopping or looking at the shops. Elsie looked at these girls as they sat along the narrow benches. 'My dears,' she longed to say, but did not, 'I hope you have every one got a brave lover, and that you have all got twelve thousand pounds apiece--with accumulations-- twelve thousand pounds--with accumulations--ations--ations--realising four hundred and eighty pounds a year, and perhaps a little more. With accumulations--ations--ations--accumulations.' She ran into the house and up the stairs singing. At the sound of her voice her mother, engaged in calculations of the greatest difficulty, paused wondering. When she understood that it was the voice of her child and not an organ-grinder, she became angry. What right had the girl to run about singing? Was it insolent bravado? Elsie opened the door of the drawing-room and ran in. Her mother's cold face repelled her. She was going to tell the joyful news--but she stopped. 'You have seen Mr. Dering?' asked her mother. 'Yes; I have seen him.' 'If he has brought you to reason----' 'Oh! He has--he has. I am entirely reasonable.' Mrs. Arundel was astonished. The girl was flushed of face and bright of eye; her breath was thick; her lips were parted. She looked entirely happy. 'My dear mother,' she went on, 'I am to dine with him to-night. Hilda is to dine with him to-night. You are to dine with him to-night. It is to be a family party. He will bring us all to reason--to a bag full of reasons.' 'Elsie, this seems to me to be mirth misplaced.' 'No--no--in its right place--reasons all in a row and on three shelves, labelled and arranged and classified.' 'You talk in enigmas.' 'My dear mother'--yet that morning the dear mother would not speak to the dear daughter--'I talk in enigmas and I sing in conundrums. I feel like an oracle or a Delphic old woman for dark sayings.' She ran away, slamming the door after her. Her mother heard her singing in her studio all to herself. 'Can she be in her right mind?' she asked anxiously. 'To marry a Pauper--to receive the admonition of her guardian--and such a guardian--and to come home singing. 'Twould be better to lock her up than let her marry.'