She laughed unmercifully.

“If you were not my husband,” she said cruelly, “you would have heard it before now.  I have been careful all my life—­more careful than most women, but I can hear the whisperings already.  There are more ways to ruin than one, Lumley.”

“We will refuse the yacht,” Barrington said sullenly, “and I will go to the Jews for that eight thousand pounds.”

“We will do nothing of the sort,” Lady Ruth answered.  “I am not going to be a laughing stock for Emily and her friends if I can help it.  We’ll play the game through now!  Only—­it is best for you to know the risks . . .”

Wingrave’s second letter was to Juliet.  She found it on her table one afternoon when she came back from her painting class.  She tore it open eagerly enough, but her face clouded over as she read.

“Dear Juliet,—­I am sorry that I am unable to carry out my promise to come and see you, but I have been slightly indisposed for some days, and am leaving London, for the present, almost at once.  I trust that you are still interested in your work, and will enjoy your trip to Normandy.

“I received your letter, asking for my help towards re-establishing in life a poor family in whom you are interested.  I regret that I cannot accede to your request.  It is wholly against my principles to give money away to people of this class.  I look upon all charity as a mischievous attempt to tamper with natural laws, and I am convinced that if everyone shared my views, society would long ago have been re-established on a sounder and more logical basis.  To be quite frank with you, also, I might add that the gift of sympathy has been denied to me.  I am quite indifferent whether the family you allude to starve or prosper.

“So far as you yourself are concerned, however, the matter is entirely different.  If it gives you pleasure to assist in pauperizing any number of your fellow creatures, pray do so.  I enclose a check for L100.  It is a present to you.  Use it entirely as you please—­only, if you use it for the purpose suggested in your letter to me, remember that the responsibility is yours, and yours alone.—­I remain, sincerely yours, Wingrave Seton.”

Juliet walked straight to her writing table.  Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wet with tears.  She drew out a sheet of note paper and wrote rapidly:—­

“My dear guardian,—­I return you the check.  I cannot accept such presents after all your goodness to me.  I am sorry that you feel as you do about giving money away.  You are so much older and wiser than I am that I dare not attempt to argue with you.  Only it seems to me that life would be a cruelly selfish thing if we who are so much more fortunate than many of our fellow creatures did not sometimes try to help them a little through their misery.  Perhaps I feel this a little more keenly because I wonder sometimes what might not have become of me but for your goodness.