frumpy Clockborough marriage never really materialized her. She feels indeed that she has become very British—as if that, as a process, as a Werden, were conceivable; but it's precisely what makes her cling to the notion of the 'Fund'—cling to it as to a link with the ideal."
"How can she cling, if she's dying?"
"Do you mean how can she act in the matter?" my companion asked. "That's precisely the question. She can't! As she has never yet caught her hare, spied out her lucky impostor (how should she, with the life she has led?), her husband's intention has come very near lapsing. His idea, to do him justice, was that it should lapse, if exactly the right person, the perfect mixture of genius and chill penury, should fail to turn up. Ah! Lady Coxon's very particular—she says there must be no mistake."
I found all this quite thrilling—I took it in with avidity. "If she dies without doing any thing, what becomes of the money?" I demanded.
"It goes back to his family, if she hasn't made some other disposition of it."
"She may do that, then—she may divert it?"
"Her hands are not tied. The proof is that three months ago she offered to make it over to her niece."
"For Miss Anvoy's own use?"
"For Miss Anvoy's own use—on the occasion of her prospective marriage. She was discouraged—the earnest seeker required so earnest a search.
