He had reached this point, when she spoke.

“Do you mind repeating the last thing you said? I want to be sure about it-about the income.”

He leaned back in his chair smiling.

“Well, I can’t pretend to give you an exact figure-you will understand that. But by the time all deductions are made- death duties, outstanding accounts, and allowing for income tax and surtax at the present rates-I think you may count on a clear two thousand a year. It may be more-it will, I think, almost certainly be more-but at the most conservative estimate it can hardly be less. Probate will, of course, take some time, but Mr. Brand arranged that a sum of money should be available without delay. You have a banking account?”

Marian Brand said, “No.” Then she smiled and added, “Only in the Post Office Savings Bank. I have never had anything but what I earned. I haven’t saved very much, I’m afraid-my sister hasn’t been strong.”

“So Mr. Brand said.”

Five pounds a week, and a delicate sister to support, and the delicate sister’s work-shy husband. He hoped that most of the money wouldn’t just run away down that drain.

He took Martin Brand’s letter from a drawer and went out of the office, leaving her to read it alone. She opened it without being able to feel that any of this was really happening. The part of her mind which recognized facts and their relation to other facts, the part which dealt with such things as cause and effect, was in a stunned condition, as completely in abeyance as if the events in which she was taking part were the events of a dream. In a dream nothing astonished you-you no longer expect anything to follow a reasonable course. She turned mechanically to the letter which Mr. Ashton had given her.

The letter was written in a clear and legible hand. She read it with a steady deepening of the feeling that none of it really mattered, because presently she would wake up and find that it had never happened.