’He cannot bear enmity against Emily, who of course knew nothing of his quarrel with his uncle.  Do you know anything about Mr. Price?  What is he?  Where does he live?’

‘He is a literary man, I believe.  I have heard that he writes plays!’

‘Oh, a writer of plays.’

’Yes.  I am glad of it; he may be easier to deal with.  I daresay it is a mistaken notion, but one is apt to imagine that these artist folk are more generous with their money than ordinary mortals.’

‘Is he married?’ said Julia, and involuntarily she glanced toward Emily.

Mr. Grandly, too, looked toward the girl, and then he said:  ’I don’t know if Mr. Price is married; I hope not.’

‘Why do you hope so?’ said Emily, suddenly.

’Because if he isn’t, there will only be one person to deal with.  If he had a wife, she would have a voice in the matter; and in such circumstances as ours a man is easier to deal with.  I earnestly hope Mr. Hubert Price is not married, and shall consider it a great point in our favour if on returning to town I find he is not.’  Then assuming a lighter tone, for the nervous strain of the last ten minutes had been intense, he said:  ’If he is not married, who knows—­you may take a fancy to him, and he to you; then things would be just the same as before—­only better.’

’I should not marry him—­I hate him already.  I wonder how you can think of such a thing, Mr. Grandly?  You know that he must be a very wicked man for uncle to have disinherited him.  I have always heard that—­but I don’t know what I am saying.’  Tears welled up into her eyes.  ’I daresay my cousin is not so bad as—­but I can talk no more....  I am very miserable, I have always been miserable, and I don’t know why; I never did harm to any one.’

Soon after Mr. Grandly bade the ladies good-bye.  Julia followed him to the front door.  ’You will do all you can to help us?  That poor child is too young, too inexperienced, to realise what her position is.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Mr. Grandly, extending both hands to Julia; ’in the whole course of my experience I never met with a sadder case.  But we must not take too sad a view of it.  Perhaps all will come right in the end.  The young man cannot refuse to make good his uncle’s intentions.  He cannot see his cousin go to the workhouse.  I will do the best I can for you.  The moment I get back to London, I’ll set inquiries on foot and find out his address, and when I have seen him I’ll write.  Good-bye.’

Then, resolving that it were better to leave the girl to herself, Julia took up her key-basket and hurried away on household business.  But in the middle of her many occupations she would now and then stop short to think.  She had never heard of anything so cruel before.  That poor girl—­she must go to her; she must not leave her alone any longer.  But it would be well to avoid the subject as much as possible.  She must think of something to distract her thoughts.  The pony-chaise.  It might be the last time they had a carriage to go out in.  But they could not go out driving on the day of the funeral.