In the autumn of that year, sixteen months after the death of William Massarene, she sailed from Southampton for that dread Northwest, which remained in the memories of her earliest childhood as a place of horror, whose summer meant sandstorms, and drought, and sunstroke, and the whirling of the mad tornado, and the scorching billows of the forest fires, and winter meant the pall of snow on hill and plain, the driving of the dreadful blizzard, the lowing of starved cattle, the mourning of famished wolves, the shapeless heaps upon the ice which were the bodies of frozen travelers and foundered caravans. It was terrible to her to return there, and behold all which she must see there; but it was more terrible to her to remain possessor of the millions which had been acquired in that hell. “Why can that young woman be gone to America?” said Daddy Gwyllian. “Gone to look after her property, I presume,” said Hurstmanceaux, whom he addressed. “It is a _joli denier_ to look after. That cad was second only to Vanderbilt and Pullman.” “Why will you always talk about money, Daddy? It is a very vulgar habit.” “Money’s like robust health,” said Daddy. “Vulgar if you like, but deuced comfortable to those who have got it.” Hurstmanceaux, as he walked down Pall Mall a few moments later, felt irrationally disappointed that she had gone to America. No doubt she had gone to look after her property there, but he did not think that the person he had seen, with her large, dark, calm eyes and her stately grace, ought to care whether those millions of acres and billions of dollars diminished or increased. If her attitude and expressions in his presence had been real, and not affected, she could not care. He regretted that he had written that letter to her from Cowes. It had been written from his heart on a generous impulse; and he knew life well enough to know that our generous impulses are the costliest of all our indulgences. When he thought also of all which she might know--which she certainly must suspect--of the sister whom he had loved so well, he suffered as only a man of tender heart and sensitive honor can suffer when wounded in his family pride and his natural affections. CHAPTER XXXVII. With the following March London saw once more the Duchess of Otterbourne carrying her graceful presence to Court and salon and theatre, having recovered her beauty and with it her spirits. One of those fortunate incidents of which life is prodigal to its favorites had happened. An old aunt had died and left her a legacy of a few thousands; enough thousands to make a year at least pass smoothly, without too much self-denial. She was pleased to have a little ready money, indisputably her own, which had come to her in a most respectable manner, and could be squandered just as she chose, without the interference of anybody. Millions do not really afford you the smallest satisfaction if somebody stands over you to see how you spend them.