“Let’s see—­how old is he now?”

“He was born on the last day of August.”

Sir Francis threw up his arms and stretched himself, as if a fit of idleness had overtaken him; then advanced to the cradle and pulled down the clothes.

“Who is he like, Isabel?  My handsome self?”

“Were he like you in spirit, I would pray that he might die ere he could speak, or think!” she burst forth.  And then remembering the resolution marked out for herself, subsided outwardly into calmness again.

“What else?” retorted Sir Francis.  “You know my disposition pretty well by this time, Isabel, and may be sure that if you deal out small change to me, you will get it back again with interest.”

She made no reply.  Sir Francis put the clothes back over the sleeping child, returned to the fire, and stood a few moments with his back to it.

“Is my room prepared for me, do you know?” he presently asked.

“No, it is not,” she quietly rejoined.  “These apartments are mine now; they have been transferred into my name, and they can never again afford you accommodation.  Will you be so obliging—­I am not strong—­as to hand me that writing case?”

Sir Francis walked to the table she indicated, which was at the far end of the great barn of a room, and taking the writing-case from it, gave it to her.

She reached her keys from the stand at her elbow, unlocked the case, and took from it some bank-notes.

“I received these from you a month ago,” she said.  “They came by post.”

“And never had the grace to acknowledge them,” he returned, in a sort of mock reproachful tone.

“Forty pounds.  That was the amount, was it not?”

“I believe so.”

“Allow me to return them to you.  Count them.”

“Return them to me—­for what?” inquired Sir Francis, in amazement.

“I have no longer anything whatever to do with you in any way.  Do not make my arm ache, holding out these notes to you so long!  Take them!”

Sir Francis took the notes from her hand and placed them on a stand near to her.

“If it be your wish that all relations should end between us, why, let it be so,” he said.  “I must confess I think it may be the wisest course, as things have come to this pass; for a cat and dog life, which would seemingly be ours, is not agreeable.  Remember, though, that it is your doing, not mine.  But you cannot think I am going to see you starve, Isabel.  A sum—­we will fix upon the amount amicably—­shall be placed to your credit half-yearly, and—­”

“I beg of you to cease,” she passionately interrupted.  “What do you take me for?”

“Take you for!  Why, how can you live?  You have no fortune—­you must receive assistance from some one.”

“I will not receive it from you.  If the whole world denied me, and I could find no help from strangers, or means of earning my own bread, and it was necessary that I should still exist, I would apply to my husband for means, rather than to you.  In saying this, it ought to convince you that the topic may cease.”