“Sir Wingrave,” she said, “for all that you have done for me, I am, as you know grateful. I would try to tell you how grateful, only I know that it would weary you. So we will speak only of the future. I cannot continue to accept--even such magnificent alms as yours.” “What do you mean, child?” he asked, frowning across at her. “I mean,” she said, “that now I am old enough to work, I cannot accept everything from one upon whom I have no claim. If you will help me a little still, I shall be more than grateful. But it must be in my own way.” “You talk about work,” he said. “What can you do?” “I can paint,” she answered, “fairly well. I should like to go to London and have a few lessons. If I cannot make a living at that, I shall try something else.” “You disappoint me,” Wingrave said. “There is no place for you in London. There are thousands starving there already because they can paint a little, or sing a little, or fancy they can. Do you find it dull down here?” “Dull!” she exclaimed wonderingly. “I think that there can be no place on earth so beautiful as Tredowen.” “You are happy here?” “Perfectly!” “Then, for heaven’s sake, forget all this folly,” Wingrave said hardly. “London is no place for children. Miss Harrison can take you up for a month when you choose. You can go abroad if you want to. But for the rest--” She rose suddenly, and sweeping across the office with one graceful movement, she leaned over Wingrave’s chair. Her hands rested upon his shoulders, her eyes, soft with gathering tears, pleaded with his. Wingrave sat with all the outward immobility of a Sphinx. “Dear Sir Wingrave,” she said, “you have been so generous, so kind, and I may not even speak of my gratitude. Don’t please think me unreasonable or ungracious. I can’t tell you how I feel, but I must, I must, I must go away. I could not live here any longer now that I know. Fancy for a moment that I am your sister, or your daughter! Don’t you believe, really, that she would feel the same? And I think you would wish her to. Don’t be angry with me, please.” Wingrave’s face never changed; but his fingers gripped the arms of his chair so that a signet ring he wore cut deep into his flesh. When he spoke, his tone sounded almost harsh. The girl turned away to dash the tears from her eyes. “What do you think of this--folly, Pengarth?” The lawyer looked his best client squarely in the face. “I do not call it folly, Sir Wingrave. I think that Miss Lundy is right.” There was a pause. Her eyes were still pleading with him. “Against the two of you,” Wingrave remarked, “I am, of course, powerless. After all, it is no concern of mine. I shall leave you, Pengarth, to make such arrangements as Miss Lundy desires!” He rose to his feet. Juliet now was pale. She dashed the tears from her eyes and looked at him in amazement mingled with something which was almost like despair. “You don’t mean,” she exclaimed, “you are going away without coming to Tredowen?”