"This house is no longer a cheerful one," continued Mrs. Luttrell, in a cold, monotonous voice. "There are no attractions for young men now. It has been a house of mourning. I could not expect you to visit me."
"Indeed, Aunt Margaret, I would have come if I had known that you wanted me," said Hugo, wondering whether his tardiness would entail the loss of Mrs. Luttrell's money.
He recovered his self-possession and his fluency at this thought; if danger were near, it behoved him to be on the alert.
"I have wanted you," said Mrs. Luttrell. "But I could wait. I knew that you would come in time. Now, listen to what I have to say."
Hugo held his breath. What could she say that needed all this preamble?
"Hugo Luttrell," his aunt began, very deliberately, "you are a poor man and an extravagant one."
Hugo smiled, and bowed his head.
"But you are only extravagant. You are not vicious. You have never done a dishonourable thing—one for which you need blush or fear to meet the eye of an honest man? Answer me that, Hugo. I may know what you will say, but I want to hear it from your own lips."
Hugo did not flinch. His face assumed the boyish innocence of expression which had often stood him in good stead. His great, dark eyes looked boldly into hers.
"That is all true, Aunt Margaret. I may have done foolish things, but nothing worse. I have been extravagant, as you say, but I have not been dishonourable."