The earl held up his hand deprecatingly.
“I must entreat of you not to mention his name,” he said, quickly. “Pray do not.”
Her face flushed with anger; she was about to make some sharp retort, but had the prudence to smother her rising anger, and forbore from making any reply.
Mr. Chicknell adroitly turned the conversation with the tact and address of an accomplished courtier. He engaged the earl’s attention upon one or two topics which were favourite ones with him.
The cloud passed over, and the earl took his protegée to the picture gallery. He talked pleasantly to her, and allowed her to see how greatly she was admired by him.
Without ostentation, without boasting, he gave her some faint idea of the glories of the house of Ethalwood. He was well up in the history of his ancestors. He showed her ancient armour that had been worn by the heroes and warriors of his race.
He showed her the pictured faces of men whose voice had ruled the land. He showed her the portraits of ladies whose names had been proverbial for beauty and grace.
“I point out these things to you, my child,” said the earl, “so that when I am gathered to my fathers you may keep the remembrance of our ancestors green in your memory; for it has pleased heaven to make known to me that there is yet a living descendant of our long and honourable line, who will, let me hope, wear with credit the honours which, in good time, will be his.”
“To whom do you allude, my lord?” said Aveline.
“I cannot refer to any other than your son.”