"He was in the deal with another man. Both apparently were selling to Mr. Cronin, and they quarrelled over the division of the profits. So Hartmann came to me in revenge. He told me that Diana was to get eight thousand pounds if she could persuade me to sell and that they meant to sell the tapestry afterward to Mr. Cronin for twenty-five thousand pounds. It's not a pretty story, is it?" "No," said Benoliel. "So you gave it back to Ludsey?" "Yes." "Does Mrs. Royle know that you are aware of her share in the transaction?" "Yes. We haven't ever talked of it, but she knows and proposed of her own accord that we should separate. We couldn't go on living together, could we? It would be too uncomfortable. I couldn't trust her." "When does she go?" "In a week or two, now," said Cynthia. "She has taken a little house on the north side of the park. Of course, for my father's sake"--thus she always spoke of Mr. Daventry--"I am looking after her;" and she suddenly struck her hands together. "Oh, but it's all rather sordid, isn't it?" "Yes," said Mr. Benoliel. He was troubled and perplexed. "And what are you going to do?" he asked. Cynthia shrugged her shoulders. "I must engage a companion." "That doesn't sound very satisfactory." "What else can I do?" "Marry!" said Mr. Benoliel. Cynthia rose petulantly to her feet. "No," she cried. "That I won't do." She turned away and looked out into the street, a storm of rebellion at her heart. Why should every one want to marry her off? Even her friend, her adviser, who should have stood by her, had turned, it seemed, against her. She came back to Mr. Benoliel, but he stood with so distressful a countenance that her indignation died away, and with a pretty compunction she made her apology: "I know that you are thinking of me. I am sorry if I seemed to forget it. Forgive me! But you can't really want me to marry just so that I may not be alone." "My dear," said Mr. Benoliel gently, "It's a very good reason." Cynthia shook her head. "For a girl?--I am little more. No. I may come to that belief in the end when I am older. But not yet. I must have a better reason now. There are too many years ahead of me." Mr. Benoliel smiled, with a little wistfulness in the smile. "Dreams, Cynthia, dreams," he said. "I am losing them," she returned, and with a smile too, the smile of humor, not of amusement. "I am making haste to lose them against my will. But this one I'll keep for still a little while. I'll still dream that while I am young I must have a better reason for marriage than the fear of being alone." "Very well, Cynthia," said Mr. Benoliel disconsolately. "I'll hope you are right."