But Miss Craven shook her head again. "Clever, Barry, but not clever enough. Gillian is no fool. She knows her father had no money, that he existed on a pittance doled out to him by exasperated relatives which ceased with his death. He told her plainly in his last letter that there was nothing in the world for her--except your charity. Think of what Gillian is, Barry, and think what she must have suffered--waiting for your coming from Japan, and, to a less extent, in the dependence of these last years."
He moved uncomfortably, as if he resented the plainness of his aunt's words, and having found a cigarette lit it slowly. Then he walked to the window, which was still unshuttered, and looked out into the darkness, his back turned uncompromisingly to the room. His inattentive attitude seemed almost to suggest that the matter was not of vital interest to him.
Miss Craven's face grew graver and she waited long before she spoke again. "There is also another reason why I have strenuously opposed Gillian's desire to make her own way in the world, a reason of which she is ignorant. She is not physically strong enough to attempt to earn her own living, to endure the hard work, the privations it would entail. You remember how bronchitis pulled her down last year; I am anxious about her this winter. She is constitutionally delicate, she may grow out of it--or she may not. Heaven knows what seeds of mischief she has inherited from such parents as hers. She needs the greatest care, everything in the way of comfort--she is not fitted for a rough and tumble life. And, Barry, I can't tell her. It would break her heart."
Her eyes were fixed on him intently and she waited with eager breathlessness for him to speak. But when at length he answered his words brought a look of swift disappointment and she relaxed in her chair with an air of weary despondency. He replied without moving.
"Can't you arrange something, Aunt Caro? You are very fond of Gillian, you would miss her society terribly; cannot you persuade her that she is necessary to you--that it would be possible for her to work and still remain with you? I know that some day you will want to go back to your own house in London, to take up your own interests again, and to travel. I can't expect you to take pity much longer on a lonely bachelor. You have given up much to help me--it cannot go on for ever. For what you have done I can never thank you, it is beyond thanks, but I must not trade on your generosity. If you put it to Gillian that you, personally, do not want to part with her--that she is dear to you--it's true, isn't it?" he added with sudden eagerness. And in surprise at her silence he swung on his heel and faced her. She was leaning back in the big armchair in a listless manner that was not usual to her.