Mrs. Massarene, since the tyranny under which she had been repressed so long had been removed from her, was a more self-asserting and self-satisfied person. Her deep crape garments lent her in her own eyes majesty and importance, despite the slur which the will had cast upon her. She was William’s widow, a position which seemed to her second to none in distinction. Death did for her lost spouse in her eyes what it often does for the dead with tender-hearted survivors; it made his cruelties dim and distant, it made his memory something which his life certainly had never been. That burial by peers and princes had been as a cloud of incense which was for ever rising about his manes. Royalty would not have sent even its youngest and smallest officer of the Household to represent it at any funeral which had not been the wake of all the virtues. Those towering heaps of wreaths had been in her view as a cairn burying out of sight all her husband’s misdeeds and brutalities. As ill-luck would have it, Daddy Gwyllian, who was staying at Cowes, crossed over to Bournemouth that morning to see an invalid friend. He was sauntering along in his light grey clothes, his straw hat, and his yachting shoes, when as he passed the garden gateway of the villa which Mrs. Massarene had hired, he encountered Ronald coming out of it. “Ah! dear boy,” he cried, in his pleasantest manner. “Making it up with the heiress, eh? Quite right. Quite right. Pity you’ve been so stiff-necked about it all these years.” Hurstmanceaux was extremely annoyed at this undesirable meeting. But he had nothing that he could say which would not have made matters worse. “Where did you spring from, Daddy?” he said impatiently. “You are always appearing like a Jack in a box.” “I make it a rule to be where my richest and laziest fellow-creatures most congregate,” replied Daddy. “And that in the month of August is the Solent. But come, Ronnie, let out a bit; you know I’m a very old friend. What are you doing down here if you’re not paying court to Miss Massarene?” “I am certainly not paying court to Miss Massarene,” replied Hurstmanceaux, very distantly. “I was obliged to see her on business.” “Ah! Business is a very good antechamber to marriage,” said Daddy, with a chuckle. “It may be. I remain in the antechamber.” “Tut, tut! Of course you say so. You are really becoming like other people, Ronnie. I see you have sold your pictures!” “Is that anyone’s affair but mine?” “Well, yes, I think so. A sale is everybody’s affair. There’s nothing sacred about it. I always told you they were wasted at Faldon. Nobody saw ’em but spiders and mice.” Hurstmanceaux was silent. “What an uncommunicative beggar he is,” thought Daddy. “When one thinks that I’ve known him ever since he was in knickerbockers with his hair down to his waist!” “Is it true that Roxhall buys back Vale Royal?” he asked. “Ask Roxhall,” said Hurstmanceaux, “and I fear I must leave you now and walk on faster to the station.”