"I hope you're comfortable where you are," said Mr. Trent, politely.
"Yes, I'm very comfortable, thank you, Francis. Though," said Mrs. Trent, deliberately, "I think I should be more comfortable if I wasn't in a house where Mr. Oliver visited."
"Oliver! Do you mean my brother Oliver? Why do you call him Mr. Oliver? It is so absurd to keep up these class-distinctions."
"So I think," said Mary, "but when other people keep them up it's not much use for me to be the first to cast them over board. Your brother Oliver comes to the house where I'm living much oftener than I think he ought."
"What house is it? You never told me."
"It's Mr. Brooke's. Mr. Caspar Brooke—him as wrote 'The Unexplored.' I brought it to you to read, I remember—a good long time ago."
"Awful rot it was too!" said Francis, contemptuously. "However, I suppose it paid. What are you doing there? Wasn't it his wife who ran away from him? I remember the row some years ago—before I went under. Is she dead?"
"No, she's living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It's her daughter I've come to wait on: Miss Lesley Brooke."
"Brooke's daughter!" said Francis, thoughtfully. "I remember Brooke. Not half a bad fellow. Lent me ten pounds once, and never asked for it again. So it's Brooke's daughter you— hm—live with. Sort of companion, you are, eh, Mary?"
"Maid," said Mary, stolidly. "Ladies' maid. And Miss Lesley's the sweetest young lady I ever come across."