"He and his brother."
"Ah, to be sure—the father of Miss Stirling. He died, I believe, when she was quite a little child."
"Yes. Years ago. Will you come and sit down?"
"And—which of the two, may I ask, is our Mr. Stirling? This one, I suppose,—such a handsome face!"
"That was the brother—Maurice Stirling."
Mrs. Brutt echoed the word "Maurice!" with an intonation of surprise. Then she took a chair, and poured out a string of bland remarks on the weather, the neighbourhood, why she had come, whom she had seen lately, gradually edging her way in the direction that she wished. Switzerland had to be dragged in, neck and shoulders. Mountains, with their exquisite scenery, came next; and Doris followed.
"By-the-by"—playing with her bracelet—"I wonder whether you have happened to hear of the young surgeon, Mr. Richard Maurice, whom we happened to meet abroad. Curious how many Maurices there seem to be!"— reflectively. "Really, quite odd. I imagine that the Squire is acquainted with him."
"Not unlikely," Mrs. Stirling said carelessly. "Will you have some cake?"
"Thanks. Such delicious cake! Home-made, no doubt. We met Mr. Maurice first at Bex, and then in the mountains. A rather agreeable man; and clever too. He and Doris went no end of expeditions together. Girls do such odd things, you know, in these days. You and I, when we were girls, would no more have dreamt of going off for a day with a strange young man, than of flying to the moon. The one would have been as impossible as the other. But everything now is so different! Of course they were not strangers long. Very much the reverse, as you may imagine."
Mrs. Stirling, having received Doris's little note, and having been impressed by it, woke up to the fact that there was method in this outpouring. She handed more cakes.