"Look here, Diana, you've never been poor in your life, so you don't know what it's like being awfully hard up. But ever since father died, mother's had a frightful lot of trouble--all of us to keep, and the boys' schooling to pay, and next to nothing to do it on. Father left everything in a dreadful muddle. He never had a bit of sense--" Diana made a sudden movement. Fanny looked at her astonished, expecting her to speak. Diana, however, said nothing, and the girl resumed: "I mean, in business. He'd got everything into a shocking state, and instead of six hundred a year for us--as we'd always been led on to expect--well, there wasn't three! Then, you know, Uncle Mallory used to send us money. Well" (she cleared her throat again and looked away from Diana), "about a year before he died he and father fell out about something--so _that_ didn't come in any more. Then we thought perhaps he'd remember us in his will. And that was another disappointment. So, you see, really mother didn't know where to turn." "I suppose papa thought he had done all he could," said Diana, in a voice which tried to keep quite steady. "He never denied any claim he felt just. I feel I must say that, because you seem to blame papa. But, of course, I am very sorry for Aunt Bertha." At the words "claim" and "just" there was a quick change of expression in Fanny's eyes. She broke out angrily: "Well, you really don't know about it, Diana, so it's no good talking. And I'm not going to rake up old things--" "But if I don't know," said Diana, interrupting, "hadn't you better tell me? Why did papa and Uncle Merton disagree? And why did you think papa ought to have left you money?" She bent forward insistently. There was a dignity--perhaps also a touch of haughtiness--in her bearing which exasperated the girl beside her. The haughtiness was that of one who protects the dead. But Fanny's mind was not one that perceived the finer shades. "Well, I'm not going to say!" said Fanny, with vehemence. "But I can tell you, mother _has_ a claim!--and Uncle Mallory _ought_ to have left us something!" The instant the words were out she regretted them. Diana abandoned her childish attitude. She drew herself together, and sat upright on the edge of the sofa. The color had come flooding back hotly into her cheeks, and the slightly frowning look produced by the effort to see the face before her distinctly gave a peculiar intensity to the eyes. "Fanny, please!--you must tell me why!" The tone, resolute, yet appealing, put Fanny in an evident embarrassment. "Well, I can't," she said, after a moment--"so it's no good asking me." Then suddenly, she hesitated--"or--at least--" "At least what? Please go on." Fanny wriggled again, then said, with a burst: "Well, my mother was Aunt Sparling's younger sister--you know that--don't you?--" "Of course."