Miss Marjory, of course, had plenty to say, and it was not her custom to whisper. ‘It’s the most ridiculous will I ever heard in my life!’ she exclaimed, with an emphatic gesture of contempt. ‘It’s positively idiotic! People are very odd, and there’s no accounting for tastes; but really this is beyond everything. Philip Debenham, I believe you could get the whole thing upset in a court of law. The man must have been mad when he drew it up. I should dispute it if I were you.’ Mr. and Mrs. Belassis looked pinched and blue, despite the warmness of the evening. The Signor seemed listening with the most profound interest to every word that was spoken. Maud gave Tor a look of half-impatient entreaty, and he interposed to say to Belassis: ‘Have you anything more to add, before my sister registers her decision?’ ‘I have a letter written by her dear dead father, whom that lady has thought fit——’ Here Miss Marjory turned suddenly round and looked him full in the face. The effect was instantaneous. The words died away into silence, and he concluded feebly enough: ‘A letter to Maud—from her father. Will you read it, my dear?’ ‘I see,’ said Tor, ‘that it is neither sealed nor fastened. No doubt you are master of its contents. I think it would be better that you should read it to us. Is that your wish, Maud?’ ‘Yes,’ she answered readily. ‘I would rather it was read aloud.’ Belassis had no choice but to obey. Perhaps he did not object to the task. The letter might possibly convince the company that the will did but embody the real wishes of Philip Debenham, senior. He cleared his throat, and began: ‘MY DEAR AND ONLY DAUGHTER,’ (‘As if papa would ever have begun a letter like that!’ breathed Maud indignantly.) ‘When this reaches your hand, you will have been made aware of my dearest wish for your future—a wish that has been near my heart for many long years, and which will, I am convinced, secure at once the happiness and well-being of your future life. I mean by this, your marriage with the son of my dearest and most faithful friend, Alfred Belassis. I cannot doubt that the son of such a father will grow up to resemble him; and I feel that I am doing the best that can be done for your future, as well as gratifying my own earnest wish, when I try to do that which will make you a happy woman for life. When your name is Belassis I shall not know an ungratified wish; and if, as is probable, I shall not live to see the day on which your choice is made, you will know that by consenting to a marriage with your cousin, you will be at once securing to yourself the fortune which I have conditionally left to you, and doing that which has been, and always will be, the most sincere wish of your affectionate father, ‘PHILIP DEBENHAM.’ Dead silence followed the reading of this elegantly worded epistle.