"Exactly. My name is Ferrars—Lancelot Ferrars," he says carelessly and a little absently. "In fact I am a distant relation of Sir Charles."
"Oh," says Doris, and subsides into silence.
"Merivale!" repeats Mr. Ferrars softly to himself. "Have you an aunt living in London, Miss Merivale, by name Lady Woodhouse? I am sure I have seen your face somewhere before, and I can only think that it was in a frame on one of her tables."
"Very likely," remarks the girl sadly. "She used to be rather fond of talking about her eldest niece, who was to have been presented at the first drawing-room this season. Yes, she is our aunt. And so you know her? Did she tell you of our come-down in the world?"
"She told me," says Mr. Ferrars, looking kindly at the flushed face, which showed the girl's bitter thoughts and emotions, "of the sudden misfortunes of a sister and her family—not of any come-down, as you express it. One need not necessarily come down with adversity, you know."
Doris looks gratefully at him, then swallowing the lump in her throat she says, trying to smile, "No, perhaps not; but it makes one very cross and discontented, I think."
"Does it? You do not look either the one or the other, so far as I can see."
"O, you don't know what I am at home," says the girl shaking her head gloomily. "Now, although I have certainly enjoyed my morning out here, I have an uncomfortable sort of feeling (conscience, I suppose) that I ought to be at home domesticating. But I am not above confessing that I cordially hate anything of the kind; and so I was wicked and played truant and left poor Honor to do all the work by herself."
"Honor!—what a pretty name!" says Mr. Ferrars, while he industriously peels off the bark from a little stick. "Is she your domestic?"
Doris breaks into a rippling laugh. "Honor is my sister," she says, "and the dearest old girl in the world."