It is to be noted that Audrey was no worse off than before the discovery of the astounding value of the Zacatecas shares.  The Moze property, inherited through generations and consisting mainly in farms and tithe-rents, was not in the slightest degree impaired.  On the contrary, the steady progress of agriculture in Essex indicated that its yield must improve with years.  Nevertheless Audrey felt as though she and her mother were ruined, and as though the National Reformation Society had been guilty of a fearful crime against a widow and an orphan.  The lovely vision of immeasurable wealth had flashed and scintillated for a month in front of her dazzled eyes—­and then blackness, nothingness, the dark void!  She knew that she would never be happy again.

And she thought, scornfully, “How could father have been so preoccupied and so gloomy, with all those riches?” She could not conceive anybody as rich as her father secretly was not being day and night in a condition of pure delight at the whole spectacle of existence.  Her opinion of Mathew Moze fell lower than ever, and fell finally.

The parlourmaid, in a negligence of attire indicating that no man was left alive in the house, waited at the door of the study to learn whether or not Miss Moze was in.

“You’ll have to see him,” said Miss Ingate firmly.  “It’ll be all right.  I’ve known him all my life.  He’s a very nice man.”

After the parlourmaid had gone, and while Audrey was upbraiding her for not confessing earlier her acquaintance with Mr. Foulger, Miss Ingate added: 

“Only his wife has a wooden leg.”

Then Mr. Foulger entered.  He was a shortish man of about fifty, with a paunch, but not otherwise fat; dressed like a sportsman.  He trod very lightly.  The expression on his ruddy face was amiable but extremely alert, hardening at intervals into decision or caution.  He saw before him a nervous, frowning girl in inelegant black, and Miss Ingate with a curious look in her eyes and a sardonic and timid twitching of her lips.  For an instant he was discountenanced; but he at once recovered, accomplishing a bright salute.

“Here you are at last, Mr. Foulger!” Miss Ingate responded.  “But you’re too late.”

These mysterious words, and the speechlessness of Audrey, upset him again.

“I was away in Somersetshire for a little fishing,” he said, after he had deplored the death of Mr. Moze, the illness of Mrs. Moze, and the bereavement of Miss Moze, and had congratulated Miss Moze on the protective friendship of his old friend, Miss Ingate.  “I was away for a little fishing, and I only heard the sad news when I got back home at noon to-day.  I came over at once.”  He cleared his throat and looked first at Audrey and then at Miss Ingate.  He felt that he ought to be addressing Audrey, but somehow he could not help addressing Miss Ingate instead.  His grey legs were spread abroad as he sat very erect on a chair, and between them his dependent paunch found a comfortable space for itself.