Murray started anew at that name so rudely uttered, his hand clenched itself on the arm of his chair, and a spasm of wounded pride contracted his forehead. With a powerful effort he mastered himself once more, and leaned back in his seat, with his face turned from the light, and listening with apparent calmness to their conversation.
“And the rents,” said Butler, “the income—you have an idea of its amount?”
“Have you never ascertained?” asked Sir John.
“Not exactly—you see, Catharine Montour dislikes to speak of anything connected with her past life, and it is difficult to get a clear answer from her concerning the actual amount of the property.”
“Then, sir, I, of course, am not at liberty to betray anything which she sees fit to keep secret.”
“But there can be no treason in asking a question concerning a fortune which will one day be my own?”
“There may be none in your asking, if you think it proper,” returned Sir John; “but it certainly would be treachery in me to expose anything which the lady desires to remain untold.”
“You inherit all of your father’s chivalry,” retorted Butler, insolently. “Doubtless he had good reason for keeping the lady’s secrets.”
A flush shot up to Sir John’s forehead, and his lips compressed themselves suddenly; but, restraining his anger, he replied, with unmoved courtesy:
“I trust that I possess the chivalry which should be the birthright of every true gentleman. As for my father, no man trifles with his name or memory here.”