"Poor little boy! You never saw him. They didn't bring him in when you were over at Manor Cross?"
"No;—I didn't see him."
"They weren't very proud of showing him. He wasn't much to look at. Upon my soul I don't know whether he was legitimate or not, according to English fashions." Mr. De Baron stared. "They had something to stand upon, but,—damn it,—they went about it in such a dirty way! It don't matter now, you know, but you needn't repeat all this."
"Not a word," said Mr. De Baron, wondering why such a communication should have been made to him.
"And there was plenty of ground for a good fight. I hardly know whether she had been married or not. I never could quite find
out." Again Mr. De Baron stared. "It's all over now."
"But if you were to have another son?"
"Oh! we're married now! There were two ceremonies. I believe the Dean knows quite as much about it as I do;—very likely more. What a rumpus there has been about a rickety brat who was bound to die."
"Am I to tell them downstairs?"
"Yes;—you might as well tell them. Wait till I'm gone. They'd say I'd concealed it if I didn't let them know, and I certainly shan't write. There's no Popenjoy now. If that young woman has a son he can't be Popenjoy as long as I live. I'll take care of myself. By George I will. Fancy, if the Dean had killed me. He'd have made his own daughter a Marchioness."