tion shown by her mother. She handed back the paper.
"What about it?" she asked. "It is the sort of thing that is always happening. Cheese-paring old women are always dying in villages and leaving fortunes of millions to their humble companions."
"Yes, dear, I know," said her mother, "and I dare say the fortune is not anything like as large as they say it is; newspapers are so inaccurate. But even if you cut it down by half"
"Well," said Lenox, "it has not been left to us."
"Not exactly, dear," said Lady Tamplin; "but this girl, this Katherine Grey, is actually a cousin of mine. One of the Worcestershire Greys, the Edgeworth lot. My very own cousin! Fancy!"
"Ah-ha," said Lenox."
"And I was wondering" said her mother.
"What there was in it for us," finished Lenox, with that sideways smile that her mother always found difficult to understand.
"Oh, darling," said Lady Tamplin, on a faint note of reproach.
It was very faint, because Rosalie Tamplin was used to her daughter's outspokenness and to what she called Lenox's uncomfortable way of putting things.
"I was wondering," said Lady Tamplin, again drawing her artistically pencilled brows together, "whetheroh, good morning. Chubby darling; are you going to play tennis? How nice!"
Chubby, thus addressed, smiled kindly at her, remarked perfunctorily, "How topping you look in that peach-coloured thing," and drifted past them and down the steps.
