He took up the pen again, and began picking the feathers from the quill in dead silence.

“Perhaps your existing will may help you to instruct me, sir,” pursued Mrs. Lecount.  “May I inquire to whom you left all your surplus money, after leaving the eighty thousand pounds to your wife?”

If he had answered that question plainly, he must have said:  “I have left the whole surplus to my cousin, George Bartram”—­and the implied acknowledgment that Mrs. Lecount’s name was not mentioned in the will must then have followed in Mrs. Lecount’s presence.  A much bolder man, in his situation, might have felt the same oppression and the same embarrassment which he was feeling now.  He picked the last morsel of feather from the quill; and, desperately leaping the pitfall under his feet, advanced to meet Mrs. Lecount’s claims on him of his own accord.

“I would rather not talk of any will but the will I am making now,” he said uneasily.  “The first thing, Lecount—­” He hesitated—­put the bare end of the quill into his mouth—­gnawed at it thoughtfully—­and said no more.

“Yes, sir?” persisted Mrs. Lecount.

“The first thing is—­”

“Yes, sir?”

“The first thing is, to—­to make some provision for You?”

He spoke the last words in a tone of plaintive interrogation—­as if all hope of being met by a magnanimous refusal had not deserted him even yet.  Mrs. Lecount enlightened his mind on this point, without a moment’s loss of time.

“Thank you, Mr. Noel,” she said, with the tone and manner of a woman who was not acknowledging a favor, but receiving a right.

He took another bite at the quill.  The perspiration began to appear on his face.

“The difficulty is,” he remarked, “to say how much.”

“Your lamented father, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Lecount, “met that difficulty (if you remember) at the time of his last illness?”

“I don’t remember,” said Noel Vanstone, doggedly.

“You were on one side of his bed, sir, and I was on the other.  We were vainly trying to persuade him to make his will.  After telling us he would wait and make his will when he was well again, he looked round at me, and said some kind and feeling words which my memory will treasure to my dying day.  Have you forgotten those words, Mr. Noel?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Noel, without hesitation.

“In my present situation, sir,” retorted Mrs. Lecount, “delicacy forbids me to improve your memory.”

She looked at her watch, and relapsed into silence.  He clinched his hands, and writhed from side to side of his chair in an agony of indecision.  Mrs. Lecount passively refused to take the slightest notice of him.

“What should you say—?” he began, and suddenly stopped again.

“Yes, sir?”

“What should you say to—­a thousand pounds?”

Mrs. Lecount rose from her chair, and looked him full in the face, with the majestic indignation of an outraged woman.