"That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"
Felix submitted to the interruption with his delightful good-humor.
"What a bright creature you are!" he exclaimed. "What would I not give
for your flow of spirits! Yes--one does spend money in Paris, as you
say. The clubs, the stock exchange, the race-course: you try your luck
here, there, and everywhere; and you lose and win, win and lose--and you
haven't a dull day to complain of." He paused, his smile died away, he
looked inquiringly at Lady Lydiard. "What a wonderful existence
yours must be," he resumed. "The everlasting question with your needy
fellow-creatures, 'Where am I to get money?' is a question that has
never passed your lips. Enviable woman!" He paused once more--surprised
and puzzled this time. "What is the matter, my dear aunt? You seem to be
suffering under some uneasiness."
"I am suffering under your conversation," her Ladyship answered sharply.
"Money is a sore subject with me just now," she went on, with her eyes
on her nephew, watching the effect of what she said. "I have spent five
hundred pounds this morning with a scrape of my pen. And, only a
week since, I yielded to temptation and made an addition to my
picture-gallery." She looked, as she said those words, towards an
archway at the further end of the room, closed by curtains of purple
velvet. "I really tremble when I think of what that one picture cost me
before I could call it mine. A landscape by Hobbema; and the National
Gallery bidding against me.
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