"How can you set things straight? And how is it that things want setting straight? Mr. Heron is—surely—a rich man."
She laughed; even in the midst of her agitation, she laughed a soft, pleasant, little laugh.
"Oh, I forgot," she said, suddenly. "You do not know. I found out on the day you came that you did not know."
"Did not know—what?"
She raised her eyes to his face, and spoke with gravity, but great sweetness.
"Nobody meant to deceive you," she said; "in fact, I scarcely know how it is that you have not learnt the truth—partly; I suppose, because in Italy I begged them not to tell anybody the true state of the case; but, really, my uncle is not rich at all. He is a poor man. And Percival is poor, too—very poor," she added, with a lingering sigh over the last two words.
"Poor! But—how could a poor man travel in Italy, and rent the Villa Venturi, say nothing of Strathleckie?"
"He did not rent it. They were my guests."
"Your guests? And what are they now, then?"
"My guests still."