"This is easier than catching flies," was George's comment, when the cheque for the furniture arrived, together with a document which pretended to be a receipt, but was unable to disguise the fact that it was also an agreement; for it contained a clause, by which George undertook to quit Windward House within three calendar months, and to accept Miss Yard as his tenant for life at a yearly rental of thirty pounds.

He looked forward to a busy day without flinching. Some forms of labour were fascinating, and quashing lawyers was one of them. George did not write to Mr. Hunter returning thanks, but walked into the market town and opened an account with the post office savings bank by paying in the comfortable cheque. Returning to Highfield, he lured Nellie into the garden, and informed her he was piling up money in a reckless fashion.

"Two hundred pounds this morning," he said. "Another two hundred next week. And so it will go on."

"Where's it all coming from?" she asked.

"Money Aunt left me. They don't know what a lot she did leave. It's a great secret and I wouldn't tell any one but you. I'm refusing money – that gentleman who called the other day begged me to accept a thousand pounds, but I wouldn't look at it. I can retire any day now."

"From what?" she laughed.

"From business. Making money is business, and I'm making it like the Mint."

"Did you really get two hundred pounds this morning?"

"Look at this, if you can't believe me," George replied, showing her the bank book. "It's nothing – just a flea bite – what the French call a game of bagatelle. Still it would give many an honest soul a start in life."

"You had better lend the money to your cousin," suggested Nellie.

"I'd let it perish first," cried George. "Whatever made you think of such a thing?"

"Mr. Taverner wrote to Miss Sophy this morning – she shows me all her letters now – and asked her to lend him two hundred pounds, as he had suddenly discovered another mortgage he had forgotten to pay off."

"The fellow's a ruffian!" exclaimed George, not without some admiration for Percy's methods of finance, which compared favourably with his own.

"He had learnt the profession of begging, and isn't ashamed to practise it. I think he might wait until Miss Sophy is dead."

"Percy has no moral sense," said George, with the utmost severity. "He has visited here, and I have entertained him; but he has never given me anything except superciliousness, and on one occasion a cigar which was useless except as a germicide. I have never yet heard your opinion of him."

"He's a name and nothing else," she said.

"I did have an idea he wanted to be something to you."

"What rubbish! He never even looked at me properly. When he didn't gaze at my boots he stared over my head; and he spoke to me like a gramophone."

"You didn't exactly like him?" George suggested.

"I positively dislike him."

"You never looked at him softly with your nice blue eyes?"

"My eyes are not blue."

"They seem very blue sometimes, but I'm not good at colours. I am glad you don't like Percy. It has removed a great weight from my mind. I had a dreadful suspicion, Nellie, and – and I was afraid it might interfere with my sleep; but I won't say anything more about it now. Don't you think we had better meet this evening, when it is getting dusk," George rambled on heavily, "and go a little walk, and talk about plans?"

"I have no plans," said Nellie. "I shall just go on living here until Miss Yard dies, and then I shall pack up my belongings – including the round table in the parlour – and disappear from Highfield forever."

"Not you," said George. "I have a quantity of plans, Nellie; a lot for you as well as for myself."

"Tell me all about them."

"This is not the time."

"Can't you speak while we stand here in the sunshine?"

"It would be easier if we were walking about in the dark."

"That might be bad for me," she reminded him. "When a couple talk in the dark, other couples talk about them. I will listen to some of your plans – with a decided preference for those about myself. You shall tell me four," she said, tapping the first finger of her right hand. "What is plan number one?"

"About Aunt Sophy," replied George promptly:

"Unless there's a sudden change in temperature," murmured Nellie, "I am to be frozen out again."

"You come last," said tactless George.

"Just as I expected, and perhaps a little more," she answered.

"Aunt Sophy must die," said George firmly. "That sad event should happen any time now. The first plan is to get rid of her."

"Let it be done decently," she begged.

"I don't want her to die, for, of course, one is always sorry to lose old relations. Aunt Maria's death was a great shock to me," George explained. "But for Aunt Sophy it would be a happy release, especially as I cannot be master in my own house while she lives. She ought to have gone before Aunt Maria."

"I suppose she forgot."

"Do you notice any signs of breaking down?"

"In yourself?" asked Nellie gently.

"In Aunt Sophy. I – I don't much like to be made fun of, Nellie."

"I was trying to cheer you up, as this is not Miss Sophy's funeral. Don't worry about the dear lady; she is perfectly well and thoroughly happy; her health has been much better since we came to Highfield; and I shall be quite astonished if she doesn't live another twenty years. She is a great admirer of the giant tortoise – "

"He's over five hundred years old," cried George in anguish.

"That makes Miss Yard the smallest kind of infant."

"If she lives another two years, I must give her notice. I cannot have her upsetting all my plans – though I quite agree with you she is a dear old lady."

"Plan number two!" cried Nellie.

"That concerns myself," said George.

"You should have been number one," she said reproachfully.

"I had to put Aunt Sophy first, because I cannot arrange my own future while she occupies the house. I don't want to say too much about myself."

"I know," said Nellie sympathetically. "That's your way. But you should try to be a little selfish sometimes."

"You are quite right, Nellie; we must think of our own interests. I have wasted far too much time bothering about Aunt Sophy, Kezia, Bessie – "

"And me!!" cried Nellie. "Do let me come in somewhere."

"Not with them. You come in a class by yourself."

"The fourth," she murmured.

"As Aunt Sophy is so good and religious we cannot want her to live on, knowing how much happier she will be in the next world; and then I can settle down as the big man of Highfield – quite the biggest man in the place, and I hope the most respectable. Mr. and Mrs. George Drake, of Windward House, in the parish of Highfield and county of Devon, Esquire, as the lawyers say."

"How unkind! You introduce Mrs. Drake, and then ignore her. You married her at one end of your sentence and divorced her, for no fault whatever, at the other end."

"Married ladies are not credited with separate existences," explained George.

"They generally insist upon taking one."

"By lawyers, I mean. They are not distinct entities like spinsters and widows."

"I see: while I am single I have a personality, when I marry I lose it, when I am a widow I regain it. You could not have improved upon that sentence."

"Why not?" asked George.

"In its repetition of the most important letter in the alphabet. Now for plan number three."

"But I have said nothing about myself yet!" cried George.

"Don't try. You are finding it very disagreeable, I am sure; and after all I can guess. This house ought to be converted into a mansion, and you mean to do it. This village sadly needs a squire, resident magistrate, pillar of uprightness; and you fully intend to supply that want."

George nodded, and hoped she would go on talking like that, blinking after the fashion of a tomcat who has just enjoyed a bowl of cream.

"I have all sorts of plans for my future, but they are not properly arranged yet. Aunt Sophy blocks them all. I am not ambitious," George blundered on, "but I do mean to have a comfortable home, luxurious armchairs, piles of cushions, deep carpets, felt slippers, and good cigars. I don't care how simple my food is, so long as I have good tobacco, and the very finest tea obtainable. I should like to turn the parlour into a tea house, with a divan at one end where I could lie and smoke – sometimes."

"A dream of Turkish delight!" laughed Nellie. "What is the third plan?"

"Concerning finance, and there I can't be beaten," replied George promptly.

"I thought you were rolling in money."

"It is coming in nicely now," George admitted, "but after a time the flow will cease; while I shall still be spending. The problem before me is how to invest my capital so that I shall be certain of a comfortable income. Government securities are treacherous things, and I have very little confidence in railways. The secret of wealth is to invest your cash in those things which everybody must have. Now every man must buy tobacco and drink beer; they are necessities of life. And every woman must carry an umbrella. What is a woman's principal necessity next to an umbrella?"

"No respectable girl would even think of anything except umbrellas," replied Nellie. "But most girls are not respectable, I'm afraid, and, though it is a horrible confession to make, they cannot be happy unless they are constantly supplied with chocolates."

"Is that really the truth?" asked George, with much interest.

"It is, indeed. My kind of girl must have chocolates, just as your kind of man must drink beer."

"Now that you mention it, I seem to remember there are an extraordinarily lot of sweet shops in every town."

"And I should visit them all, just as naturally as you would go into the public houses."

"That's a very valuable suggestion," said George. "I shall invest the whole of my capital in beer, tobacco, umbrellas, and chocolates. You see, Nellie, that will practically cover the prime necessities of either sex. A man goes to work with a pipe in his mouth, and he walks straight into a public-house. A woman comes out with an umbrella, and the first thing she does is to buy chocolates."

"There are sure to be exceptions," said Nellie. "A bishop, for instance, might not go to his cathedral with a pipe in his mouth, while a Cabinet Minister would probably walk straight past several public-houses."

"But they all smoke and drink at home."

"I don't fancy somehow that bishops drink beer."

"Bottled beer," said George eagerly.

"Surely some are teetotallers!"

"Then they drink cocoa, and that's chocolate melted down. On the other hand, plenty of ladies drink beer. You can see them carrying jugs – "

"Not ladies!" cried Nellie.

"Well, charwomen – they are ladies from a business point of view. I can see myself making tons of money," said George delightedly. "If only Aunt Sophy – "

"Do please let the poor old lady live on and enjoy herself. You wouldn't like to be hunted out of the world to suit anybody's plans. And now," said Nellie, "we reach the fourth subject, which I flatter myself has some connection with a certain person who is quite used to being regarded as an afterthought."

"Three persons – Kezia, Bessie, Robert. They must go, all of them."

"Really this is the last straw!" cried Nellie. "I was almost certain I should be at least honourably mentioned."

"But I am talking to you, not about you. I'm telling you my secrets – and I wouldn't do that to anyone but you. Nellie, you don't think I am playing with your affections?"

"I'll not listen any longer. I couldn't expect to come first, but I did hope to be placed last."

"If you would walk after dark – "

"I'm not a ghost; besides, I will not be ashamed to stand in the light."

"Then we might talk about something that means love," said George, who, being wound up for that sentence, was bound to finish it.

"Oh, George!" exclaimed one of the parrots.

"I wonder what it would be like," said Nellie, when she had done laughing.

"You teach those birds to say things," he muttered crossly.

"They are so intelligent. That one can say, 'Nellie's the belle of the ball.' Even that sort of compliment is better than none."

"I am thinking, Nellie, that you like chocolates. I had better get you some," George continued, believing it might be threepence well invested.

"That wouldn't be a bad idea."

"And you would take them as a compliment from me?"

"I'll take all I can get," she promised.

"You know, Nellie, I'm older than you, but I'm reliable. I'm not much good at silly talk, but I do mean what I say. I can quite understand some men would say very silly things to you, but I can't."

"People will talk rubbish when they are in love," she admitted.

"It's a very serious matter. I wouldn't joke about such a thing," said George.

"Of course, when a man tells his own particular girl she is a star, a flower, an angel, and a goddess, he is only joking; but most girls are so sweet tempered they can take a joke."

"I never made a joke," cried George.

"And I hope you will never try."

"But I'm full of affection."

"I have never seen any one quite so seriously in love as you are."

"I'm so glad you can see it. You have quite sensible eyes, Nellie, and I think you may improve a good deal as you get older. I am easy-going, and you are pleasant, so we ought to get along very well."

"You are so much in love," cried Nellie, "that you can't help saying silly things. You regard the person that you love as the most angelic creature possible; and angels are always masculine in spite of lovers' talk."

"I take people as I find them; I never look for their faults," said the virtuous George.

"Try! If you could discover a few faults in the person that you love, it might help you to stop saying, 'I am,' and to begin learning, 'Thou art,'" replied Nellie, as she ran off towards the house.

"There, George!" cried one of the parrots; while the giant tortoise thoughtfully advanced one millimetre.

"She is not nearly serious enough," said George, "and I'm afraid her words sometimes have a double meaning; but she is useful and quite ornamental. She pours out tea beautifully, and I do admire the way she puts on Aunt Sophy's slippers."

The next duty – a more simple one – was to win the sympathy of Miss Yard. Every evening, when fine enough, the lady walked once round the garden and, upon returning to the house, was packed into her chair till supper time; although she refused to remain quiescent, and would wander about the room hiding her valuables in secret corners. On this particular evening she fell asleep and, when George entered the parlour, she did not recognise him until he had introduced himself.

"I shall soon be getting quite stupid," she said. "I was just going to ask you to sit down and wait for yourself. But I'm thankful to say my memory is just as good as ever."

"Then you remember Percy?" began George, seating himself close beside her.

"Oh dear yes! I often hear from Percy. He tells me he has a fine crop of potatoes."

"Tomatoes."

"He dug up two hundred pounds' worth last week. I had a letter from him this morning telling me that."

"And you remember Mr. Hunter?" George went on.

"I've just sent him a subscription for his new church," replied Miss Yard.

"Ah, that's somebody else. I mean Mr. Hunter, your family solicitor."

"Oh, yes, I remember him quite well. He came to see me when I lived somewhere else. It must have been a long time ago, because he's been dead for years."

"He's back again at his office now, and has written to me. He tells me I am to leave you," said George solemnly.

Miss Yard gasped and looked frightened at this message from the grave. She seized George's arm and ordered him to say it all over again, more slowly.

"Mr. Hunter is afraid that, if I live here, I may rob you; so he says I must go out into the world and make my own living. That's impossible at my time of life," said George warmly.

"You wouldn't do such a thing," cried Miss Yard, almost in tears. "You are so kind to me; you find my money when the others hide it away. If I break anything you are always the first to run for the doctor – I mean when I bump my head. I shall write to Mr. Hunter and tell him his new church will never prosper if he does this sort of thing."

"It is hard to be ordered out of my own house," said George.

"Whatever can the man be thinking of! I really cannot understand a clergyman being so wicked. Perhaps I ought to write to the bishop."

"He's a lawyer, Aunt," George shouted.

"Now why didn't you tell me that before?" said Miss Yard crossly. "Of course, lawyers will do anything. The people who did my father's business were the only honest lawyers I ever came across. This house belongs to me, and you shall stay here as long as you like. If you'll find my cheque-book I will write to this man at once – I mean, if you will bring my pen, you shall have a little present, for you are always so thoughtful. I am so sorry your poor dear mother didn't leave you much."

George had not time to correct her error; besides, it was useless. He brought her writing materials after a vain search for the cheque-book, for Nellie had taken possession of that, and said, "I don't want to confuse you, Aunt, but I suppose you will be leaving Nellie something?"

"Everything I have," replied Miss Yard earnestly. "I am leaving her the house, and all the furniture, my clothes and jewels, and as much money as I can save. I could not rest if I thought dear Nellie would be left unprovided for. You will look after Nellie, won't you? I should be so pleased if you would adopt her as your daughter."

"I'm not quite old enough," George stammered.

"Nonsense, you look quite elderly," said Miss Yard encouragingly. "And Nellie is such a child."

"If I had been younger I might have thought about marrying her," said George awkwardly.

"Now that would have been a nice idea! What a pity it is you are not forty years younger."

"You are thinking of someone else," cried George despairingly.

"Oh, I'm sure you are sixty. Your mother married when I was quite a girl. I do remember that, for I got so excited at the wedding that, when the clergyman asked her if she wanted the man, I thought he was speaking to me, and I said, 'Yes, please,' and poor Louisa gave me such a look, and I went into hysterics. Girls can't go into hysterics in these days like we used to do. It's funny how well I remember all these things that happened in our young days, but then for an old woman my memory is wonderful. What were we talking about before you mentioned your mother's wedding?"

"About Mr. Hunter, the lawyer who has ordered me to leave you," replied George, deciding to say no more of his matrimonial intentions.

"I never heard of such impertinence in my life. He will be telling me next I don't own the place," cried Miss Yard, stabbing with her pen in the direction of the ink pot. "What am I to say to the wretch?"

"Remind him I am your nephew, and I have every right to enjoy your hospitality. Tell him I am indispensable to you. Then you might add something about the wickedness of depriving an orphan of his home, and conclude by mentioning that you will never consent to my leaving you."

"I'll tell him, if he persecutes you any more, I will put the matter into the hands of my own solicitor," Miss Yard declared, scribbling away briskly, for her greatest delight, next to chattering, was letter writing.

"I wouldn't do that," said George piously. "It sounds too much like a threat, and after all we must try to forgive our enemies."

"Thank you for reminding me. That's a beautiful idea of yours. I wish I was a good and clever old woman like you are."

George was stooping over her at the moment, and this compliment made him groan. "It's my poor back," he explained.

"Oh dear!" exclaimed the innocent old lady. "When you have gone to bed, I shall send Nellie to wrap you up in red flannel. We old people cannot be too careful."

Miss Yard wrote letters to all manner of persons, living, dead, and imaginary; but very few found their way to the post office. George took possession of the letter to Mr. Hunter and despatched it himself; and, knowing exactly when the answer would be received, he took the precaution of going out to meet the postman. By this time he was prepared for action, as the cheque for two hundred pounds had been cleared, and the amount was deposited safely to his account.

There were two letters, and one was addressed to himself. Miss Yard's was merely a note, acknowledging the receipt of her communication and mentioning that Mr. Taverner would shortly be writing with a view to clearing away the misunderstanding which had arisen since the death of Mrs. Drake. George opened a phial of malice and poured out its contents upon the name of Percy. Then he examined his own letter, which was bulky and of a strongly acid tendency.

Mr. Hunter was astonished and pained to think that Mr. Drake should have taken advantage of the age and infirmities of Miss Yard to such an extent as to have made her the instrument of his plans; as it was perfectly evident Mr. Drake had dictated, or at least had inspired, the letter which had been addressed to his firm by Miss Yard. Mr. Hunter earnestly desired to avoid anything of an unpleasant nature, and he hoped therefore Mr. Drake would not venture to repeat an experiment which suggested a state of ethics with which he had not previously been acquainted; and would adhere to his undertaking, given as a condition to Mr. Taverner's purchase of the furniture, namely, to leave Miss Yard in undisturbed possession of the premises bequeathed to Mr. Drake by his late aunt, and better known and described as Windward House. Mr. Hunter had also just been informed, to his soul's amusement, that Mr. Drake had not yet subscribed to this form of agreement, nor had he acknowledged the receipt of a cheque for two hundred pounds forwarded him some days previously. Mr. Hunter continued to be sorry to the end of his letter, which was a memorable piece of philosophic morality, suggesting that the lawyer's office had been quite recently taken over by some institution for reforming wicked people.

George expressed a hope that Mr. Hunter some day might be sorry for himself. He had under-rated the powers of the lawyer, who had now proved himself to possess the ordinary malevolent, orphan-baiting, legal soul. However, George had no intention of surrendering without a struggle. He took his pen and obliterated the highly offensive clause which referred to his expulsion from Windward House. He then added his signature and composed an epistle complaining bitterly of the oriental methods of oppression which were being brought to bear upon him. He mentioned that he was an invalid Englishman residing in Devonshire; and laid particular stress upon the fact he never had been an Armenian living somewhere in the Turkish Empire. He especially desired to draw Mr. Hunter's attention to the phenomenon that the present age was democratic, and British workmen – with whom he did not disdain to be associated – were becoming impatient of high-handed methods. He enclosed the receipt and regretted the delay, which had been unavoidable owing to the insertion of the clause – now deleted, as Mr. Hunter would observe – which seemed to strike far too harshly against his personal liberty. He had given this clause his serious attention for some days, but had arrived at the conclusion, regretfully, that it involved a principle he was quite unable to accept. Messrs. Hunter and Taverner, in their joint capacity as trustees of the Yard estate, had apparently conspired – he did not use the word in an objectionable sense, although in his opinion it had but one meaning – to secure his eviction from premises to which he was legally entitled. They had offered him a wholly inadequate sum of money for the furniture, and this offer he had accepted with the sole idea of rendering Miss Yard a kindness; but now, it appeared, the money had been intended as a bribe to induce him to quit his home. Was this altogether legal? Was it honest? Could it be respectable? He felt compelled to remind Mr. Hunter, again regretfully, that a bribe was something given to corrupt the conduct of poor but decent men.

Then he went to Miss Yard and told her the lawyer was still tormenting him, and he was very much afraid it might soon be necessary to go away and find some hiding place.

"Has the man written to me?" asked Miss Yard, when the whole matter had been recalled to her memory.

"Don't you remember? He said you were a silly old woman, and you had no business to interfere."

"Where is the letter? Find it for me, George, and I'll do something," she cried indignantly.

"You were so angry that you threw it on the fire. Don't worry, Aunt; I shall know how to defend myself. The man tried to bribe me to leave you, and now he's threatening to send me to prison by means of false evidence."

"I wish you would let me write to my own man, what's his name?"

"That would lead to expense, and you must not spend money on me. If I don't go away I'm afraid the man may come to Highfield with a gang of ruffians, and break into the house – and I won't have you worried."

"I'll give you some money," said the generous lady. "Where's my cheque-book? Tell Nellie to find my cheque-book."

"Thank you, Aunt. A little money will be very useful. This man is just a blackmailer, and if I hide for a few weeks he will forget all about me. Then you can write and invite me to come back," said George tenderly.

"I'll write this moment," cried Miss Yard.

"But I haven't gone yet. You are mistress here and, if you like to invite me, of course, I can come and stay as long as you care to have me."

"And if that horrid man tries to turn you out again, I shall let Percy know about it, and I shall get advice from Hunter – I wonder how I came to remember his name. Do write to Hunter and tell him all about it," Miss Yard pleaded.

"To please you, I will," George promised.

That evening he received a letter in strange handwriting, and bearing the illegible postmark which signified that it came from London. George opened it and, perceiving the signature of Mr. Crampy, expert in ancient porcelain, read the contents with interest:

"Since visiting you I have spoken with several collectors about your pair of vases, which, I have no doubt whatever, are excellent specimens dating from the Tsing dynasty, although I admit forgeries of this period are exceedingly difficult to detect. My object in writing is to warn you against being imposed upon, and to remind you of your promise to give me first refusal up to a thousand pounds, which sum I am still perfectly willing to risk.

"It is highly probable some wealthy collectors may call upon you as, when the existence of such vases as you possess becomes known, there is invariably a hue and cry after them. I enclose, on a separate sheet of paper, a list of names; these are all gentlemen whom you can trust absolutely. The two against whose names I have pencilled the letters, U.S.A. are, I know, very keen to get your vases. If you should do business with any of the gentlemen on my list I get a commission. I don't suppose you will let yourself be humbugged, but I beg you not to make any offer in writing unless you intend to stick to it, as any of these collectors would convert your scrap of writing into a stamped legal document at once, and then sue you for breach of contract if you tried to get out of it.

"So long as you refuse to part with the vases for less than a thousand, you'll be all right."