They had been left to her by his uncle, and she had obstinately refused to take them.

Now they were lying packed in the cellars of certain bankers,--but still they were in his custody.

What should he now do in this matter?
Hitherto, perhaps once in every six months, he had notified to her that he was keeping them as her curator, and she had always repeated that it was a charge from which she could not relieve him.

It had become almost a joke between them.

But how could he joke with a woman with whom he had quarrelled after this internecine fashion?
What if he were to consult Lady Cantrip?
He could not do so without a pang that would be very bitter to him,--but any agony would be better than that arising from a fear that he had been unjust to one who had deserved well of him.