old man, Frances said—­ he certainly was a decently-mannered, good-natured, rather fine-looking, and most generous old man—­and he was going to take her everywhere and give her a good time—­and she would never have to go shabby again as long as she lived; and if Deb refused her a proper wedding, law or no law, she would run away with him, as Mary had run away with Bennet Goldsworthy, and Rose with Peter Breen.

Whether this dire threat prevailed, or the temptation of the money, or whether she could not any longer fight against fate, Deb gave in.  After all, Frances was not to be judged as an ordinary girl—­she was a hard-hearted, tough-fibred, prosaic little minx, for which reason Deb pitied the prospective husband more than she did her; and if she did not do this bad thing now, the chances were that she would do a worse thing later on.  She was made to disport herself in the sunshine of the world; she was of the type of woman that must have men about her; she would get her “rights”, as she called them, somehow, by fair means or foul.  Deb was sufficiently a woman of the world herself to recognise this, and the uselessness of thinking she could alter it.  Well, money is a consolatory thing—­she knew its value now; and there was that additional comfort, which, of course, she did not own to—­the thought of where Mr Ewing would be when Mrs Ewing was in her prime.

“You dear old thing!” the bride-elect patronised her elder sister.  “James is so pleased to have your consent, and he says he won’t ask you to give me my share of what father left us—­it would be but a drop in the bucket anyway; you are to keep it all yourself.”

Deb had had whole control of the fragments of his once large fortune left by Mr Pennycuick to his four daughters, on behalf of any of them unmarried or under age; but Mary and Rose—­although Peter had also protested against it—­had been paid the value of their shares (whence the Jew element in the present difficulties); and the unforeseen marriage of Frances at eighteen threatened total bankruptcy to the remaining sister.  Yet Deb said, with fierce determination: 

“Of course you will have what is your due, like the others.”

“I’m sure he won’t take it, Deb.  He said he wouldn’t.”

“I don’t care what he says.  It concerns you and me—­not him.”

“I really should not miss it, dear.  I am to have a thousand a year to draw against, for just nothing but my clothes and pocket-money.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Deb.  “You can give your own income to the poor.”

“You really won’t keep it?”

“Is it likely I would keep what doesn’t belong to me?”

“Well, then,” said Frances, her easy conscience satisfied, “we can put it into my trousseau.  I must have a decent trousseau mustn’t I?”

“Of course!”