“It seems to me, Juliet, that your aunt told you a great deal about this person.  Why did you ask?”

Juliet stared into the fire.  “There is something so strange about Mrs. Herne,” she murmured.  “In spite of her gray hair she looks quite young.  She does not walk as an old woman.  She confessed to being over fifty.  To be sure, I saw her only once.”

Mrs. Octagon grew rather cross.  “I am over fifty, and I’m sure I don’t look old, you undutiful child.  When the soul is young, what matters the house of clay.  But, as I was saying,” she added hastily, not choosing to talk of her age, which was a tender point with her, “Selina Loach likes low company.  I know nothing of Mrs. Herne, but what you say of her does not sound refined.”

“Oh, she is quite a lady.”

“And as to Mr. Clancy and Mr. Jarvey Hale,” added Mrs. Octagon, taking no notice, “I mistrust them.  That Hale man looked as though he would do a deed of darkness on the slightest provocation.”

So tragic was her mother’s manner, that Juliet turned even paler than she was.  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked quickly.

“I mean murder, if I must use so vulgar and melodramatic a word.”

“But I don’t understand—­”

“Bless me,” cried Mrs. Octagon, becoming more prosaic than ever, “there is nothing to understand.  But Selina lives in quite a lonely house, and has a lot of money.  I never open the papers but what I expect to read of her death by violence.”

“Oh,” murmured Juliet, again crossing to the window, “you should not talk like that, mother!”

Mrs. Octagon laughed good-naturedly.  “Nonsense, child.  I am only telling you my thoughts.  Selina is such a strange woman and keeps such strange company that she won’t end in the usual way.  You may be sure of that.  But, after all, if she does die, you will come in for her money and then, can marry Cuthbert Mallow.”

Juliet shuddered.  “I hope Aunt Selina will live for many a long day, if that is what you think,” she said sharply.  “I want none of her money.  Cuthbert has money of his own, and his uncle is rich also.”

“I really hope Cuthbert has enough to justify him gambling.”

“He does not gamble,” said Juliet quickly.

“Yes he does,” insisted Mrs. Octagon.  “I have heard rumors; it is but right you should hear about—­”

“I want to hear nothing.  I thought you liked Cuthbert.”

“I do, and he is a good match.  But I should like to see you accept the Poet Arkwright, who will yet be the Shakespeare of England.”

“England has quite enough glory with the Shakespeare she has,” rejoined Juliet tartly, “and as to Mr. Arkwright, I wouldn’t marry him if he had a million.  A silly, ugly, weak—­”

“Stop!” cried Mrs. Octagon, rising majestically from her throne.  “Do not malign genius, lest the gods strike you dumb.  Child—­”

What Mrs. Octagon was about to say further must remain ever a mystery, for it was at this moment that her husband hurried into the room with an evening paper in his hand.  “My dear,” he said, his scanty hair almost standing on end with horror, “such dreadful news.  Your aunt, Juliet, my dear—­”