"We hear that Sir William says he is better."
"I fear, nevertheless, that he is dying,—though it may, perhaps, take a long time. And then poor Mountjoy has disappeared. I think that we should see no one till the mystery about Mountjoy has been cleared up. And then the story is so very discreditable."
"I do not see that that is an affair of ours," said Florence, who had no desire to be shut up just at the present moment.
"We cannot help ourselves. This making his eldest son out to be—oh, something so very different—is too horrible to be thought of. I am told that nobody knows the truth."
"We at any rate are not implicated in that."
"But we are. He at any rate is my brother, and Mountjoy is my nephew,—or at any rate was. Poor Augustus is thrown into terrible difficulties."
"I am told that he is greatly pleased at finding that Tretton is to belong to him."
"Who tells you that? You have no right to believe anything about such near relatives from any one. Whoever told you so has been very wicked." Mrs. Mountjoy no doubt thought that this wicked communication had been made by Harry Annesley. "Augustus has always proved himself to be affectionate and respectful to his elder brother, that is, to his brother who is—is older than himself," added Mrs. Mountjoy, feeling that there was a difficulty in expressing herself as to the presumed condition of the two Scarboroughs, "Of course he would rather be owner of Tretton than let any one else have it, if you mean that. The honor of the family is very much to him."
"I do not know that the family can have any honor left," said Florence, severely.
"My dear, you have no right to say that. The Scarboroughs have always held their heads very high in Staffordshire, and more so of late than ever. I don't mean quite of late, but since Tretton became of so much importance. Now, I'll tell you what I think we had better do. We'll go and spend six weeks with your uncle at Brussels. He has always been pressing us to come."