The Duchess waited till she and Trent were alone to broach the topic that was engrossing her thoughts.
“I think all is going well,” she said. “They seem quite wrapped up in each other. But I am still a little anxious about Alistair. The poor boy seems to be so much ashamed of his disgrace; he has told me that he does not think he is good enough for a girl like Hero Vanbrugh.”
“The question is what she thinks, isn’t it?”
“Yes; that is what I want you to tell him. You can put it better than I can. A little encouragement from you just now might turn the scale. We can save him—and you will help me, dear?”
“You haven’t said anything to her father, I suppose?”
“No.” The Duchess looked a little troubled. “He is not a man I should find it easy to be confidential with. I think I am a little afraid of him.”
“I think you are right,” pronounced the rejected suitor.
All the old bitterness had welled up again as his mother spoke. He, the eldest son, the credit to the family, was welcomed by his mother simply as an ally in the salvation of the young prodigal who had brought disgrace upon their house. He was to encourage this ne’er-do-weel, who at last showed some slight sense of his own worthlessness—to pat him on the back, and bid him go forward and win the bride whom he, Trent, had been refused.
“I wish you would sound Sir Bernard,” said the innocent Duchess.
Trent started. The suggestion chimed in so exactly with certain dark suggestions of his own secret mind that he nearly betrayed his exultation.