"Oh, I observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond there."
"Didn't he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara Desmond is such a sweet creature." The mother looked at her son as he said this, but the son did not notice the look. "I do wonder what the real truth can be," he continued. "Do you think there is anything wrong about the property in general? About this estate, here?"
"No, I don't think that," said the mother, sadly.
"What can it be then?" But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and did not answer the question. "I'll tell you what I will do, mother; I'll go up to London, and see Prendergast, and consult him."
"Oh, no; you mustn't do that. I am wrong to tell you all this, for he told me to talk to no one. But it would kill me if I didn't speak of it to you."
"All the same, mother, I think it would be best to consult Prendergast."
"Not yet, Herbert. I dare say Mr. Prendergast may be a very good sort of man, but we none of us know him. And if, as is very probable, this is only an affair of health, it would be wrong in you to go to a stranger. It might look—"
"Look what, mother?"
"People might think—he, I mean—that you wanted to interfere."
"But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don't?"