“But I don’t want to borrow twenty thousand pounds.”

“No, no, exactly—­of course you don’t.  But I point out that fact to show the value.  You would be making a present of that sum of money to people who do not want it—­who have no claim upon you.  I really don’t see how they could take it.”

“Mrs. Courton wishes to have the place very much.”

“But, my lady, she has never thought of getting it without paying for it.  Lady Ongar, I really can not advise you to take any such step as that—­indeed, I can not.  I should be wrong, as your lawyer, if I did not point out to you that such a proceeding would be quite romantic—­quite so—­what the world would call Quixotic.  People don’t expect such things as that—­they don’t, indeed.”

“People don’t often have such reasons as I have,” said Lady Ongar.  Mr. Turnbull sat silent for a while, looking as though he were unhappy.  The proposition made to him was one which, as a lawyer, he felt to be very distasteful to him.  He knew that his client had no male friends in whom she confided, and he felt that the world would blame him if he allowed this lady to part with her property in the way she had suggested.  “You will find that I am in earnest,” she continued, smiling, “and you may as well give way to my vagaries with a good grace.”

“They would not take it, Lady Ongar.”

“At any rate, we can try them.  If you will make them understand that I don’t at all want the place, and that it will go to rack and ruin because there is no one to live there, I am sure they will take it.”

Then Mr. Turnbull again sat silent and unhappy, thinking with what words he might best bring forward his last and strongest argument against this rash proceeding.

“Lady Ongar,” he said, “in your peculiar position, there are double reasons why you should not act in this way.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Turnbull?  What is my peculiar position?”

“The world will say that you have restored Ongar Park because you were afraid to keep it.  Indeed, Lady Ongar, you had better let it remain as it is.”

“I care nothing for what the world says,” she exclaimed, rising quickly from her chair—­“nothing, nothing!”

“You should really hold by your rights—­you should, indeed.  Who can possibly say what other interests may be concerned?  You may marry, and live for the next fifty years, and have a family.  It is my duty, Lady Ongar, to point out these things to you.”

“I am sure you are quite right, Mr. Turnbull.” she said, struggling to maintain a quiet demeanor.  “You, of course, are only doing your duty.  But whether I marry or whether I remain as I am, I shall give up this place.  And as for what the world, as you call it, may say, I will not deny that I cared much for that on my immediate return.  What people said then made me very unhappy.  But I care nothing for it now.  I have established my rights, and that has been sufficient.  To me it seems that the world, as you call it, has been civil enough in its usage of me lately.  It is only of those who should have been my friends that I have a right to complain.  If you will please to do this thing for me, I will be obliged to you.”