Herminia glanced over it with a burning face.  It was a will in her favor, leaving absolutely everything of which he died possessed “to my beloved friend, Herminia Barton.”

Herminia had hardly the means to keep herself alive till her baby was born; but in those first fierce hours of ineffable bereavement what question of money could interest her in any way?  She stared at it, stupefied.  It only pleased her to think Alan had not forgotten her.

The sordid moneyed class of England will haggle over bequests and settlements and dowries on their bridal eve, or by the coffins of their dead.  Herminia had no such ignoble possibilities.  How could he speak of it in her presence at a moment like this?  How obtrude such themes on her august sorrow?

“This was drawn up,” Dr. Merrick went on in his austere voice, “the very day before my late son left London.  But, of course, you will have observed it was never executed.”

And in point of fact Herminia now listlessly noted that it lacked Alan’s signature.

“That makes it, I need hardly say, of no legal value,” the father went on, with frigid calm.  “I bring it round merely to show you that my son intended to act honorably towards you.  As things stand, of course, he has died intestate, and his property, such as it is, will follow the ordinary law of succession.  For your sake, I am sorry it should be so; I could have wished it otherwise.  However, I need not remind you”—­he picked his phrases carefully with icy precision—­“that under circumstances like these neither you nor your child have any claim whatsoever upon my son’s estate.  Nor have I any right over it.  Still”—­he paused for a second, and that incisive mouth strove to grow gentle, while Herminia hot with shame, confronted him helplessly—­“I sympathize with your position, and do not forget it was Alan who brought you here.  Therefore, as an act of courtesy to a lady in whom he was personally interested . . . if a slight gift of fifty pounds would be of immediate service to you in your present situation, why, I think, with the approbation of his brothers and sisters, who of course inherit—­”

Herminia turned upon him like a wounded creature.  She thanked the blind caprice which governs the universe that it gave her strength at that moment to bear up under his insult.  With one angry hand she waved dead Alan’s father inexorably to the door.  “Go,” she said simply.  “How dare you? how dare you?  Leave my rooms this instant.”

Dr. Merrick still irresolute, and anxious in his way to do what he thought was just, drew a roll of Italian bank notes from his waistcoat pocket, and laid them on the table.  “You may find these useful,” he said, as he retreated awkwardly.

Herminia turned upon him with the just wrath of a great nature outraged.  “Take them up!” she cried fiercely.  “Don’t pollute my table!” Then, as often happens to all of us in moments of deep emotion, a Scripture phrase, long hallowed by childish familiarity, rose spontaneous to her lips.  “Take them up!” she cried again.  “Thy money perish with thee!”