LITMIR.BIZ

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usual. Nothing in her betrayed a change in her state of mind.

      Whilst Rhoda was reading in the garden in the afternoon, Mrs. Clarendon strayed apart with her cousin.

      “You have told her?” she said, meeting Robert’s look.

      “Yes, and left the copy of the will with her. It seems to have made her oblivious of lunch.”

      “Poor girl!”

      The exclamation was a sincere one. Robert looked surprised.

      “Did she ask you many questions?” Isabel continued.

      “Two: whether I had anything more to tell her; and whether I thought that the will was generally known? To the former I said ‘No;’ to the latter ‘Yes.’ ”

      “Whether it was generally known,” repeated Isabel, with a low laugh of a not very mirthful kind. Then, after a pause, “What do people say of me? What is the common talk about me? What do the men say? and—oh! the women?”

      “My dear cousin, you know perfectly well what they say; what they have been saying since they first began to talk about you—that you are a charming woman, and so good-hearted that no one can for shame breathe a word against you.”

      Isabel sighed.

      “Rather, so shameless that gossip has not yet found the proper term to characterise me. Well, never mind myself; happily I shall soon cease to be an object of any general interest. But did she not ask any question about the value of the property?”

      “No word of it. She kept me strictly at arm’s length.”

      “And she displayed no—no emotion?”

      “At first, yes; she was extremely agitated. But she held it down. I imagine she is what is called a woman of character. I had rather not be her husband.”

      Isabel made no reply, but walked on with her head bent.

      “Will you let me ask you,” Robert began, “had you any particular reason for wishing to inform her of these matters just now?”

      “Yes, I had. There is no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. There is a certain Mr. Lacour—you’ll meet him here to-morrow afternoon—a young man whom I have known for some time as a friend of the Bruce Pages; their place is at Hanford, five miles off. He’s a brother of Sir Miles Lacour. Well, Mr. Vincent Lacour has called on me often in town, and a week ago he lunched with us here; he’s staying at the Bruce Pages’ again. I rather like him, and I believe there’s not a bit of harm in him really; but he seems to have been terribly wild, and he’s quarrelled with his brother, the baronet. I don’t suppose he’s anything left to live on, and Sir Miles refuses to help him any more. We learn all this from young Lacour himself; he’s remarkably frank, embarrassingly so at times. Now I half fancy he’s made an impression on Ada; certainly I never knew her talk so freely with any one, or show such healthy signs of interest. It wouldn’t be surprising; he’s a charming young fellow, decidedly handsome, and the strangest talker. I fancied Ada looked pleased when I mentioned that he was coming to the garden party tomorrow. I don’t know whether he ought to be put in the girl’s way, but I had to ask the Bruce Pages, and I couldn’t leave him out very well. Now you see my reason. I have never before been obliged to think of such a thing. It would be unjust to Ada to leave her in the dark as to her true position.”

      “This Mr. Lacour is doubtless aware of the circumstances?”

      “Without a doubt.”

      “And you think he might——”

      “It is not impossible. He must be in desperate straits.”

      “How old is the individual?”

      “About three-and-twenty, I think. He had ten thousand pounds of his own when he came of age.”

      “Wherewith he has purchased experience. He must be rich in that article.”

      “I’m afraid he is; but I confess I like him. I don’t think he would be a bad husband. I believe his oats are sown.”

      “I can, of course, have no opinion; but the situation is an interesting one.”

      They turned about, and walked a stretch of the lawn in silence.

      “I wish it were over,” Isabel said with a sigh. “I wish the poor girl had a good husband and all were well settled. I am tired of playing the farce.”

      “You look forward with—with equanimity?” Robert said hesitatingly, with a glance at her face.

      “More, with eagerness. I want to throw off a weight. I shall be the happiest woman in England.”

      “On three hundred a year, cousin Isabel?” ventured Asquith.

      “On three hundred a year, cousin Robert. I wish I had never had more. Come, we must go back to Rhoda. Isn’t Rhoda a dear?”

      CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      On specified occasions of assembly at Knightswell, Ada did not ordinarily present herself. Mrs. Clarendon made excuses for her on the plea of indifferent health; habitual visitors understood that Miss Warren suffered much from headaches, and that she could not with impunity expose herself to unusual excitement. The headaches were a fact, but it was probably not on their account that Ada preferred as a rule her own company. Her frequent caustic utterances on the subject of the persons whom society considers, and the things with which society occupies itself, were a sufficient index of her views; the views themselves being a natural outcome of her temperament and the circumstances of her life.

      But on the present Monday she appeared. To the last moments Mrs. Clarendon had been in uncertainty as to the likelihood of her doing so, though she had laughingly prophesied the event to Rhoda Meres, and persisted in spite of the latter’s incredulity. Ada had made no great preparations, but was well and suitably dressed. Robert Asquith, to whom all the girl’s movements were of extreme interest, promised himself the pleasure of closely observing her throughout the afternoon.

      “Tell me something of the people who are coming, will you?” he asked, as he met her in the hall. “The interesting people, I mean, of course.”

      “That limitation will make the task an easy one,” Ada replied as she buttoned a glove. Her colour was rather higher than usual, and her tone was less dry; she looked almost cheerful.

      “Then of the less uninteresting; that will leave a margin for conversation, surely?”

      “It all depends, of course, on one’s point of view. I believe you have considerable powers of being interested, have you not?”

      “Yes; I fear I boast of them. You see I find the gift valuable. In my sane moods I had rather have the dullest conversation than none at all.”

      “Therefore you come to me, waiting for others to arrive.”

      “Spare me, Miss Warren. You wouldn’t believe what toil it costs me to frame and polish a compliment. I am sure you are naturally humane.”

      “You are sure of that? To dumb animals, I hope.”

      “Alas! it brings us back to the animals who are gifted with speech. Shall we have any one who talks well, independently of the matter of discourse? Remember, I am new to English society. I enjoy the gossip of idle people, provided it be good of its kind.”

      “I am no judge,” said Ada; “but I should think Mrs. Bruce Page will satisfy you. Her tongue is so trained in current forms of speech that it has come at last to save her all trouble of superintendence. As far as my experience goes, she is nearly all that the most exacting could require.”

      “I must study that lady. And what of Miss Saltash, of whom I have heard?”

      “Oh, she

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