“Fred Mostyn’s father.”
“The devil! Excuse me, Ethel—but the name suits and may stand.”
“The dear old Squire would have taken the fault on himself if he could have done so. They that wronged him were his own, and they were dead. He never spoke of them but with affection.”
“Poor Percival! Your father told me he was now out of Mostyn’s power; he said you had saved the estate, but he gave me no particulars. How did you save it?”
“Bought it!”
“Nonsense!”
“House and lands and outlying farms and timber—everything.”
Then a rosy color overspread Madam’s face, her eyes sparkled, she rose to her feet, made Ethel a sweeping courtesy, and said:
“My respect and congratulations to Ethel, Lady of Rawdon Manor.”
“Dear grandmother, what else could I do?”