"That's what I'm coming to, Olivia dear. . . . It's because I'm leaving control of the whole fortune to you."
Suddenly, fiercely, she wanted none of it. She had a quick, passionate desire to seize all the neatly piled papers and burn them, to tear them into small bits and fling them out of the window.
"I don't want it!" she said. "Why should you leave it to me? I'm rich myself. I don't want it! I'm not a Pentland. . . . It's not my money. I've nothing to do with it." In spite of herself, there was a note of passionate resentment in her voice.
The shaggy brows raised faintly in a look of surprise.
"To whom, if not to you?" he asked.
After a moment, she said, "Why, Anson . . . to Anson, I suppose."
"You don't really think that?"
"It's his money . . . Pentland money . . . not mine. I've all the money I need and more."
"It's yours, Olivia. . . ." He looked at her sharply. "You're more a Pentland than Anson, in spite of blood . . . in spite of name. You're more a Pentland than any of them. It's your money by every right in spite of anything you can do."
("But Anson isn't a Pentland, nor you either," thought Olivia.)
"It's you who are dependable, who are careful, who are honorable, Olivia. You're the strong one. When I die, you'll be the head of the family. . . . Surely, you know that . . . already."
("I," thought Olivia, "I who have been so giddy, who am planning to betray you all. . . . I am all this!")
"If I left it to Anson, it would be wasted, lost on foolish ideas. He's no idea of business. . . . There's a screw loose in Anson. . . . He's a crank. He'd be giving away this
