Well" (she cleared her throat again and looked away from
Diana), "about a year before he died he and father fell out about
something--so _that_ didn't come in any more. Then we thought perhaps
he'd remember us in his will. And that was another disappointment. So,
you see, really mother didn't know where to turn."
"I suppose papa thought he had done all he could," said Diana, in a
voice which tried to keep quite steady. "He never denied any claim he
felt just. I feel I must say that, because you seem to blame papa. But,
of course, I am very sorry for Aunt Bertha."
At the words "claim" and "just" there was a quick change of expression
in Fanny's eyes. She broke out angrily: "Well, you really don't know
about it, Diana, so it's no good talking. And I'm not going to rake up
old things--"
"But if I don't know," said Diana, interrupting, "hadn't you better tell
me? Why did papa and Uncle Merton disagree? And why did you think papa
ought to have left you money?" She bent forward insistently. There was a
dignity--perhaps also a touch of haughtiness--in her bearing which
exasperated the girl beside her. The haughtiness was that of one who
protects the dead.
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