"And then I ought to have it always ready to clasp in my dying hand,
where Joseph would find it and wipe away a furtive tear as he buried
me. It is a pity. I am afraid I inherited nothing from my
ancestors except a very practical mind."
"I should have liked very much to see a photograph of Miss Chyne,"
said Jocelyn, who had, apparently, not been listening.
"I hope some day you will see herself, at home in England. For you
have no abiding city here."
"Only a few more years now. Has she--are her parents living?"
"No, they are both dead. Indian people they were. Indian people
have a tragic way of dying young. Millicent lives with her aunt,
Lady Cantourne. And Lady Cantourne ought to have married my
respected father."
"Why did she not do so?"
He shrugged his shoulders--paused--sat up and flicked a large moth
off the arm of his chair. Then,
"Goodness only knows," he said. "Goodness, and themselves. I
suppose they found it out too late. That is one of the little risks
of life."
She answered nothing.
"Do you think," he went on, "that there will be a special Hell in
the Hereafter for parents who have sacrificed their children's lives
to their own ambition? I hope there will be."
"I have never given the matter the consideration it deserves," she
answered.
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