"You know them?"
"No; I have only heard—" Dorothea hesitated. She did not feel herself at liberty to tell the little story of the rift between the old comrades. "I have heard of a family of that name," she said. "There is a Colonel Erskine,—he used to be a friend of my father's. They have not met for years. I think my father said he lived at a place called Craye."
"The same, of course. Our friend is Colonel Erskine."
"Do tell me about him. What is he like?"
"Quite the old soldier,—straight as a dart. A great favourite with everybody."
"And he has a family? I want to know all about them."
"All,—in a dozen words! Yes, he has a family. Wife, elderly. Daughters, three. Sons, none. House, no particular architecture. Kitchen-garden, well stocked. Would you like an inventory of the drawing-room furniture?"
"I'm more interested in the daughters. What are their names?"
"Isabel—Margot—Dolly."
"Dolly!"