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“And here endeth Aunt Maria and all her works,” said Anthony, who wanted to talk of other things.

“No, not quite.”

He looked at her, for there was meaning in her voice.

“In fact,” she went on, “so far as I’m concerned it ought to run, ‘Here beginneth Aunt Maria.’ You see, I have got to go and live with her to-morrow.”

Anthony stopped and looked at her.

“What the devil do you mean?” he asked.

“What I say. She took a fancy to me and she wants a companion–someone to do her errands and read to her at night and look after the pug dog and so forth. And she will pay me thirty pounds a year with my board and dresses. And” (with gathering emphasis) “we cannot afford to offend her who have half lived upon her alms and old clothes for so many years. And, in short, Dad and my mother thought it best that I should go, since Joyce can take my place, and at any rate it will be a mouth less to feed at home. So I am going to-morrow morning by the carrier’s cart.”

“Going?” gasped Anthony. “Where to?”

“To London first, then to Paris, then to Italy to winter at Rome, and then goodness knows where. You see, my Aunt Maria has wanted to travel all her life, but Uncle Samuel, who was born in Putney, feared the sea and lived and died in Putney in the very house in which he was born. Now Aunt Maria wants a change and means to have it.”

Then Anthony broke out.

“Damn the old woman! Why can’t she take her change in Italy or wherever she wishes, and leave you alone?”

“Anthony!” said Barbara in a scandalised voice. “What do you mean, Anthony, by using such dreadful language about my aunt?”

“What do I mean? Well” (this with the recklessness of despair), “if you want to know, I mean that I can’t bear your going away.”

“If my parents,” began Barbara steadily—-

“What have your parents to do with it? I’m not your parents, I’m your—-“

Barbara looked at him in remonstrance.

“–old friend, played together in childhood, you know the kind of thing. In short, I don’t want you to go to Italy with Lady Thompson. I want you to stop here.”

“Why, Anthony? I thought you told me you were going to live in chambers in London and read for the Bar.”

“Well, London isn’t Italy, and one doesn’t eat dinners at Lincoln’s Inn all the year round, one comes home sometimes. And heaven knows whom you’ll meet in those places or what tricks that horrible old aunt of yours will be playing with you. Oh! it’s wicked! How can you desert your poor father and mother in this way, to say nothing of your sisters? I never thought you were so hard-hearted.”

“Anthony,” said Barbara in a gentle voice, “do you know what we have got to live on? In good years it comes to about 150 pounds, but once, when my father got into that lawsuit over the dog that was supposed to kill the sheep, it went down to 70 pounds. That was the winter when two of the little ones died for want of proper food–nothing else–and I remember that the rest of us had to walk barefoot in the mud and snow because there was no money to buy us boots, and only some of us could go out at once because we had no cloaks to put on. Well, all this may happen again. And so, Anthony, do you think that I should be right to throw away thirty pounds a year and to make a quarrel with my aunt, who is rich and kind-hearted although very over-bearing, and the only friend we have? If my father died, Anthony, or even was taken ill, and he is not very strong, what would become of us? Unless Aunt Thompson chose to help we should all have to go to the workhouse, for girls who have not been specially trained can earn nothing, except perhaps as domestic servants, if they are strong enough. I don’t want to go away and read to Aunt Maria and take the pug dog out walking, although it is true I should like to see Italy, but I must–can’t you understand–I must. So please reproach me no more, for it is hard to bear–especially from you.”