open and you'll see, something will turn up! You'll hear of me next in China or Timbuctoo."
My next visitor was Mr. Flemming, Papa's London solicitor. He came down specially from town to see me. An ardent anthropologist himself, he was a great admirer of Papa's works. He was a tall, spare man with a thin face and grey hair. He rose to meet me as I entered the room, and, taking both my hands in his, patted them affectionately.
"My poor child," he said. "My poor, poor child."
Without conscious hypocrisy, I found myself assuming the demeanour of a bereaved orphan. He hypnotized me into it. He was benignant, kind and fatherly—and without the least doubt he regarded me as a perfect fool of a girl left adrift to face an unkind world. From the first I felt that it was quite useless to try to convince him of the contrary. As things turned out, perhaps it was just as well I didn't.
"My dear child, do you think you can listen to me whilst I try to make a few things clear to you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Your father, as you know, was a very great man. Posterity will appreciate him. But he was not a good man of business."
I knew that quite as well, if not better than Mr. Flemming, but I restrained myself from saying so. He continued:
"I do not suppose you understand much of these matters. I will try to explain as clearly as I can."
He explained at unnecessary length. The upshot seemed to be that I was left to face life with the sum of £87, 17s. 4d. It seemed a strangely unsatisfying amount. I waited in some trepidation for what was coming next. I feared that Mr. Flemming would be sure to have an
