The Canadian. W. Somerset Maugham

companion to rebuke his wife's untimely frivolity.

      "I say, Dorothy, you oughtn't to be facetious before Miss Marsh. She was extremely attached to Aunt Louisa."

      "Oh, what nonsense!" jeered Mrs. Wickham, throwing herself pettishly into a chair. "I find it's always a very good rule to judge people by oneself, and I'm positive she was just longing for the old lady to die."

      "She was awfully upset at the end, you know that yourself."

      "Nerves! Men are so idiotic. They never understand that there are tears and tears. I cried myself, and Heaven knows I didn't regret her death."

      "My dear Dorothy, you oughtn't to say that."

      "Why not?" retorted his wife. "It's perfectly true. Aunt Louisa was a detestable person and no one would have stood her for a minute if she hadn't had money. I can't see the use of being a hypocrite now that it can't make any difference either way. Oh, why doesn't that man hurry up!" She resumed once more her impatient walk about the room.

      "I wish Wynne would come," said her husband, glad to change the subject, particularly as he felt that he had failed to be very impressive. "It'll be beastly inconvenient if we miss that train," he finished, glancing again at his watch.

      "And another thing," said Mrs. Wickham, turning sharply as she reached the end of the room, "I don't trust that Miss Marsh. She looks as if she knew what was in the will."

      "I don't for a moment suppose she does. Aunt Louisa wasn't the sort of person to talk."

      "Nevertheless, I'm sure she knows she's been left something."

      "Oh, well, I think she has the right to expect that. Aunt Louisa led her a dog's life."

      Mrs. Wickham made an angry gesture. "She had her wages and a comfortable home. If she didn't like the place, she could have left it," she said pettishly. "After all," she went on in a quieter tone, "it's family money. In my opinion, Aunt Louisa had no right to leave it to strangers."

      "I don't think we ought to complain if Miss Marsh gets a small annuity," said her husband soothingly. "I understand Aunt Louisa promised her something of the sort when she had a chance of marrying a couple of years ago."

      "Miss Marsh is still quite young. It isn't as if she had been here for thirty years," protested Mrs. Wickham.

      "Well, anyway, I've got an idea that Aunt Louisa meant to leave her about two hundred and fifty a year."

      "Two hundred and fif—— But what's the estate amount to; have you any idea?"

      "About nineteen thousand pounds, I believe."

      Mrs. Wickham, who had seated herself once more, struck her hands violently together.

      "Oh, it's absurd. It's a most unfair proposition. It will make all the difference to us. On that extra two hundred and fifty a year we could keep a car."

      "My dear, be thankful if we get anything at all," said her husband solemnly. For a moment she stared at him aghast.

      "Jim! Jim, you don't think—— Oh! that would be too horrible."

      "Hush! Take care."

      He crossed to the window as the door opened and Kate came in softly with the tea things.

      "How lucky it is that we had a fine day," he said, endeavoring to give the impression that they had been talking with becoming sobriety of light topics. He hoped his wife's raised voice had not been heard in the passageway.

      But Mrs. Wickham was beyond caring. Her toneless "Yes" in response to his original observation betrayed her utter lack of interest in the subject. But as Kate was still busy setting out the things on a small table, he continued his efforts. Really, Dorothy should 'play up' more.

      "It looks as if we were going to have a spell of fine weather."

      "Yes."

      "It's funny how often it rains for weddings."

      "Very funny."

      "The tea is ready, sir."

      As Kate left the room, Mrs. Wickham crossed slowly over to where her husband was standing in front of the window leading to the garden. Her voice shook with emotion. It was evident that she was very near tears. He put his arm around her awkwardly, but with a certain suggestion of protective tenderness.

      "I've been counting on that money for years," she said, hardly above a whisper. "I used to dream at night that I was reading a telegram with the news of Aunt Louisa's death. And I've thought of all we should be able to do when we get it. It'll make such a difference."

      "You know what she was. She didn't care twopence for us. We ought to be prepared for the worst," he said soberly.

      "Do you think she could have left everything to Miss Marsh?"

      "I shouldn't be greatly surprised."

      "We'll dispute the will," she said, once more raising her voice. "It's undue influence. I suspected Miss Marsh from the beginning. I hate her. Oh, how I hate her! Oh, why doesn't Wynne come?"

      A ring at the bell answered her.

      "Here he is, I expect."

      "The suspense is too awful."

      "Pull yourself together, old girl," said Wickham, patting his wife encouragingly on the shoulder. "And I say, look a bit dismal. After all, we've just come from a funeral."

      Mrs. Wickham gave a sort of suppressed wail. "Oh, I'm downhearted enough, Heaven knows."

      "Mr. Wynne, sir," said Kate from the doorway.

      Mr. Wynne, the late Miss Wickham's solicitor, was a jovial, hearty man, tallish, bald and ruddy-looking. In his spare time he played at being a country gentleman. He had a fine, straightforward eye and a direct manner that inspired one with confidence. He was dressed in complimentary mourning, but for the moment his natural hearty manner threatened to get the better of him.

      "Helloa," he said, holding out his hand to Wickham. But the sight of Mrs. Wickham, seated on the sofa dejectedly enough, recalled to him that he should be more subdued in the presence of such genuine grief. He crossed the room to take Dorothy's hand solemnly.

      "I didn't have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the cemetery."

      "How do you do," she said rather absently.

      "Pray accept my sincerest sympathy on your great bereavement."

      Mrs. Wickham made an effort to bring her mind back from the all-absorbing fear that possessed her.

      "Of course the end was not entirely unexpected."

      "No, I know. But it must have been a great shock, all the same."

      He was going on to say what a wonderful old lady his late client had been in that her faculties seemed perfectly unimpaired until the very last, when Wickham interrupted him. Not only was he most anxious to hear the will read himself and have it over, but he saw signs in his wife's face and in the nervous manner in which she rolled and unrolled her handkerchief, that she was nearing the end of her self-control, never very great.

      "My wife was very much upset, but of course my poor aunt had suffered great pain, and we couldn't help looking upon it as a happy release."

      "Naturally," responded the solicitor sympathetically. "And how is Miss Marsh?" He was looking at James Wickham as he spoke, so that he missed the sudden 'I told you so' glance which Mrs. Wickham flashed at her husband.

      "Oh, she's very well," she managed to say with a careless air.

      "I'm glad to learn that she is not completely prostrated," said Mr. Wynne warmly. "Her devotion to Miss Wickham was perfectly wonderful. Dr. Evans—he's my brother-in-law, you know—told me no trained nurse could have been more competent. She was like a daughter to Miss Wickham."

      "I suppose we'd better send for her,"