Morris shook his head, though it must be confessed he was a little struck with this idea. “Do you think he is so sentimental?” “He is not sentimental,” said Mrs. Penniman; “but, to be perfectly fair to him, I think he has, in his own narrow way, a certain sense of duty.” There passed through Morris Townsend’s mind a rapid wonder as to what he might, even under a remote contingency, be indebted to from the action of this principle in Dr. Sloper’s breast, and the inquiry exhausted itself in his sense of the ludicrous. “Your brother has no duties to me,” he said presently, “and I none to him.” “Ah, but he has duties to Catherine.” “Yes, but you see that on that principle Catherine has duties to him as well.” Mrs. Penniman got up, with a melancholy sigh, as if she thought him very unimaginative. “She has always performed them faithfully; and now, do you think she has no duties to _you_?” Mrs. Penniman always, even in conversation, italicised her personal pronouns. “It would sound harsh to say so! I am so grateful for her love,” Morris added. “I will tell her you said that! And now, remember that if you need me, I am there.” And Mrs. Penniman, who could think of nothing more to say, nodded vaguely in the direction of Washington Square. Morris looked some moments at the sanded floor of the shop; he seemed to be disposed to linger a moment. At last, looking up with a certain abruptness, “It is your belief that if she marries me he will cut her off?” he asked. Mrs. Penniman stared a little, and smiled. “Why, I have explained to you what I think would happen—that in the end it would be the best thing to do.” “You mean that, whatever she does, in the long run she will get the money?” “It doesn’t depend upon her, but upon you. Venture to appear as disinterested as you are!” said Mrs. Penniman ingeniously. Morris dropped his eyes on the sanded floor again, pondering this; and she pursued. “Mr. Penniman and I had nothing, and we were very happy. Catherine, moreover, has her mother’s fortune, which, at the time my sister-in-law married, was considered a very handsome one.” “Oh, don’t speak of that!” said Morris; and, indeed, it was quite superfluous, for he had contemplated the fact in all its lights. “Austin married a wife with money—why shouldn’t you?” “Ah! but your brother was a doctor,” Morris objected. “Well, all young men can’t be doctors!” “I should think it an extremely loathsome profession,” said Morris, with an air of intellectual independence. Then in a moment, he went on rather inconsequently, “Do you suppose there is a will already made in Catherine’s favour?” “I suppose so—even doctors must die; and perhaps a little in mine,” Mrs. Penniman frankly added. “And you believe he would certainly change it—as regards Catherine?” “Yes; and then change it back again.” “Ah, but one can’t depend on that!” said Morris. “Do you want to _depend_ on it?” Mrs. Penniman asked.