Mrs. Barton gave her daughter one quick look, bit her lips, and, without another word, returned to Milord.  Everything was decidedly going wrong; and to be annoyed by that gawk of a girl in a time like the present was unbearable.  But Mrs. Barton never allowed her temper to master her, and in two minutes all memory of Alice had passed out of her mind, and she was talking business with Lord Dungory.  Many important questions had to be decided.  It was known that mortgages, jointures, legacies, and debts of all kinds had reduced the Marquis’s income to a minimum, and that he stood in urgent need of a little ready money.  It was known that his relations looked to an heiress to rehabilitate the family fortune.  Mrs. Barton hoped to dazzle him with Olive’s beauty, but it was characteristic of her to wish to bait the hook on every side, and she hoped that a little gilding of it would silence the chorus of scorn and dissent that she knew would be raised against her when once her plans became known.  Four thousand pounds might be raised on the Brookfield property, but, if this sum could be multiplied by five, Mrs. Barton felt she would be going into the matrimonial market armed to the teeth, and prepared to meet all comers.  And, seeking the solution of this problem, Milord and Mrs. Barton sat on the sofa, drawn up close together, their knees touching; he, although gracious and urbane as was his wont, seemed more than usually thoughtful.  She, although as charmful and cajoling as ever, in the pauses of the conversation allowed an expression of anxiety to cloud her bright face.  Fifteen thousand pounds requires a good deal of accounting for, but, after many arguments had been advanced on either side, it was decided that she had made, within the last seven years, many successful investments.  She had commenced by winning five hundred pounds at racing, and this money had been put into Mexican railways.  The speculation had proved an excellent one, and then, with a few airy and casual references to Hudson Bay, Grand Trunks, and shares in steamboats, it was thought the creation of Olive’s fortune could be satisfactorily explained to a not too exacting society.

Three or four days after, Mrs. Barton surprised the young ladies by visiting them in the sitting-room.  Barnes was working at the machine, Olive stood drumming her fingers idly against the window-pane.

’Just fancy seeing you, mamma!  I was looking out for Milord; he is a little late to-day, is he not?’ said Olive.

’I do not expect him to-day—­he is suffering from a bad cold; this weather is dreadfully trying.  But how snug you are in your little room; and Alice is absolutely doing needlework.’

‘I wonder what I am doing wrong now,’ thought the girl.

Barnes left the room.  Mrs. Barton threw some turf upon the fire, and she looked round.  Her eyes rested on the cardboard boxes—­on the bodice left upon the work-table—­on the book that Alice had laid aside, and she spoke of these things, evidently striving to interest herself in the girl’s occupation.  At length she said: