"Impossible," Sir George said testily. "You are talking nonsense, my dear. What blow could be heavier or harder to bear than ours? But I trust that we shall meet it with proper dignity. Nothing can deprive us of our dignity." Mary laughed aloud. The echo of her mirth came back mockingly in the silence and almost frightened her. Heavens! was it possible that Sir George had no idea of the pitiable figure he presented at that moment? He went on to suggest fortitude and calmness. He had heard of the same thing happening in the castle of a duke. Worse things had taken place in the chateaux of the aristocracy in the French Revolution. "Ay, but they knew how to live and die like gentlefolk," Mary said bitterly. "I understand that you are going to sit down and tamely submit to this thing?" "My dearest child, how impetuous you are! There is nothing else to do. By the end of the week I shall have more than enough for all my needs. Still I think, I think that there is a way to get out of the difficulty, without anybody being any the wiser. The remedy, however, lies in your hands. Of course, it requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice on your part. I am bound to confess that I could desire other channels for the amelioration of the situation. Still, as I said before----" The voice was cringing and fawning; there was something mean and furtive on Sir George's face as he spoke his polished periods. A certain sickness of heart gripped Mary; she was conscious of a sensation of absolute fear. "Pray do not be diplomatic with me," she said. "I have seen so much of that kind of thing in Paris. What are you concealing from me?" "Your tone is not filial," Sir George complained. "I did not mean to tell you; I was going to spare you the pain. I thought perhaps you would agree with me that patience was the best line to take. But I see that you desire to strike a decisive blow; at any cost you long to get those impossible creatures out of the house. Our boats are not entirely burnt as you seem to imagine--one slender plank of safety remains. Not to elaborate the thing too much, I may say I have had a note from Mayfield. I should like you to read that note and consider its inner meaning carefully. Mayfield has come down from London in his car tonight, and is staying at his old fishing quarters at Swainson's farm. He more or less apologizes for the course that he has taken, and reminds me that friendship must not be mixed up with business. He does not allude to the way in which I so flagrantly assaulted him, which strikes me as being generous on his part----" "But he has come here to gloat over our misfortune," Mary cried. "I see that my instinct did not play me false when I estimated the man."