“There’s a lot goes to Jenny, and no doubt such a keen blade as you knows that very well.  But all’s in the air at present.  Her husband left no will and that means, since there’s nobody else with any claim upon him, she has all his dough—­five hundred a year perhaps.  But there’s much more to her than that in the long run.  My brother Albert and I are both old bachelors with nobody so near us as Jenny.  In fact you may say that if all goes right, she’ll be pretty flush some day.  Not enough to waste on ruined castles, but a mighty good income none the less.  Then there’s poor Bob’s money; for however it falls out with him, it don’t look as though he’d spend it now.”

“All this is wind in the trees and the cackling of hens to me,” declared Doria.  “I have not thought about it and I do not want to think about it.  The criterion of love, such as I feel to Jenny, is that nothing else weighs a mustard seed in the balance against it.  If she were a pauper, or if she owned millions, my attitude of heart is not changed.  I worship her with the whole of myself—­so that there is not a cranny left in my spirit where hunger for money can find foothold, or fear of poverty exist.  Happiness never depends upon cash, or the lack of it; but without love no real happiness shall be found in the world.”

“That may be bunkum, or it may be God’s truth—­I don’t know.  I’ve never been in love and nobody ever wasted an ounce of affection on me,” replied Redmayne.  “But you’ve heard me now.  You can sit on the safety valve for six months anyway; and it will probably pay you best to do so; for one thing’s certain:  Jenny won’t love you any better for making love under present circumstances.”

“It is too true,” answered the other.  “Trust me.  I will hide my soul and be exquisitely cautious.  Her sorrow shall be respected—­from no selfish motive only, but because I am a gentleman, as you remind me.”

“Youth’s youth, and you Italians have a good deal more fire kneaded into you than us northerners.”

Suddenly Doria’s manner changed and he looked half sternly, half curiously at Bendigo.  Then he smiled to himself and ended, the conversation.

“Fear nothing,” he said.  “Trust me.  Indeed there is no reason why you should do otherwise.  No more of this for half a year.  I bid you good night, master.”

He was gone and for a moment only the hurtle of the rain on the ground windows of the tower room broke the silence; then Brendon emerged from his hiding-place and stretched his limbs.  Bendigo regarded him with an expression half humorous and half grim.

“That’s how the land lies,” he said.  “Now you’ve got it.”

Mark bent his head.

“And you think that she—­”

“Yes—­I think so.  Why not?  Did you ever in your experience hit up against a man more likely to charm a young woman?”

“Will he keep his word and not try to make the running for another six months?”