Speaking seriously, he had great cause for rejoicing.  Instead of a comparatively slender younger son’s portion, he had stepped into a fine and unencumbered property of over five thousand a year, and that in the heyday of his youth, when in the full possession of all his capacities for enjoyment, which were large indeed.  Henceforth everything that money could buy would be his, including the respect and flattery of his poorer neighbours.  An added flavour too was given to the overflowing cup of his good fortune by the fact that it had been wrenched from the hands of the cousin whom he hated, and on whom he had from a boy sworn to be avenged.  Poor Philip! bankrupt in honour and broken in fortune, he could afford to pity him now, to pity him ostentatiously and in public.  He was open-handed with his pity was George.  Nor did he lack a sympathizer in these delicious moments of unexpected triumph.

“Did I not tell you,” said Mrs. Bellamy, in her full, rich tones, on the afternoon of the reading of the will—­“did I not tell you that, if you would consent to be guided by me, I would pull you through, and have I not pulled you through?  Never misdoubt my judgment again, my dear George; it is infinitely sounder than your own.”

“You did, Anne, you certainly did; you are a charming woman, and as clever as you are charming.”

“Compliments are all very well, and I am sure I appreciate yours”—­and she gave a little curtsey—­“at their proper value; but I must remind you, George, that I have done my part of the bargain, and that now you must do yours.”

“Oh! that’s all right; Bellamy shall have the agency and two hundred a year with it, and, to show you that I have not forgotten you, perhaps you will accept this in memorial of our joint achievement;” and he drew from his pocket and opened a case containing a superb set of sapphires.

Mrs. Bellamy had all a beautiful woman’s love for jewels, and especially adored sapphires.

“Oh!” she said, clasping her hands, “thank you, George; they are perfectly lovely!”

“Perhaps,” he replied, politely; “but not half so lovely as their wearer.  I wonder,” he added, with a little laugh, “what the old boy would say, if he could know that a thousand pounds of his personalty had gone by anticipation to buy a necklace for Anne Bellamy.”

To this remark she made no reply, being apparently absorbed in her own thoughts.  At last she spoke.

“I don’t want to seem ungracious, George, but these”—­and she touched the jewels—­“were not the reward I expected:  I want the letters you promised me back.”

“My dear Anne, you are under a mistake, I never promised you the letters; I said that, under the circumstances, I might possibly restore them—­a very different thing from promising.”

Mrs. Bellamy flushed a little, and the great pupils of her sleepy eyes contracted till she looked quite dangerous.

“Then I must have strangely misunderstood you,” she said.