Tatham turned suddenly, as he spoke, and fixed a pair of very straight blue eyes on his companion.

“Mr. Melrose is not bound to make her his heir,” said Faversham quietly.

“Not bound!  I daresay.  But who else is there?  He’s not very likely to leave it to any of us,” said Tatham with a grin.  “And he’s not the kind of gentleman to be endowing missions.  Who is there?” he repeated.

“Mr. Melrose will please himself,” said Faversham, coldly.  “Of that we may be sure.  Now then—­what is it exactly that these ladies have come to ask?” he continued, in a sharp businesslike tone.  “You are aware of course that Mrs. Melrose left her husband of her own free will—­without any provocation?”

“You won’t get a judge to believe that very easily—­in the case of Melrose!  Anyway she’s done nothing criminal.  And she’s willing, poor wretch! to go back to him.  But if not, she asks for a maintenance allowance, suitable to his wealth and position, and that the daughter should be provided for. You can’t surely refuse to support us so far?”

Tatham had insensibly stiffened in his chair.  His manner which at first, though not exactly cordial, had still been that of the college friend and contemporary, had unconsciously, in the course of the conversation, assumed a certain tone of authority, as though there spoke through him the force of a settled and traditional society, of which he knew himself to be one of the natural chiefs.

To Faversham, full of a secret bitterness, this second manner of Tatham’s was merely arrogance.  His own pride rose against it, and what he felt it implied.  Not a sign of that confidence in the new agent which had been so freely expressed at Duddon a couple of months before!  His detractors had no doubt been at work with this jolly, stupid fellow, whom everybody liked.  He would have to fight for himself.  Well, he would fight!

“I shall certainly support any just claim,” he said, as Tatham rose, “but I warn you that Mr. Melrose is ill—­he is very irritable—­and Mrs. Melrose had better not attempt to spring any surprises on him.  If she will write me a letter, I will see that it gets to Mr. Melrose, and I will do my best for her.”

“No one could ask you to do any more,” said Tatham heartily, repenting himself a little.  “They will be with us for the present.  Mrs. Melrose shall write you a full statement and you will reply to Duddon?”

“By all means.”

“There are a good many other things,” said Tatham—­uncertainly—­as he lingered, hat in hand—­“that you and I might discuss—­Mainstairs, for instance!  I ought to tell you that my mother has just sent two nurses there.  The condition of things is simply appalling.”

Faversham straightened his tall figure.

“Mainstairs is a deadlock.  Mr. Melrose won’t repair the cottages.  He intends to pull them down.  He has given the people notice, and he is receiving no rent.  They won’t go.  I suppose the next step will be to apply for an ejectment order.  Meanwhile the people stay at their own peril.  There you have the whole thing.”