“Is the boy older than this girl?” asked she, quickly.
“I should say so. Yes, certainly. I think so, at least.”
“And I am almost as certain he is not,” said she, in the same determined tone. “Now for another point. My brother Vyner is about to make a settlement on this girl; is it not so?”
“Yes; I have instructions to prepare a deed.”
“And do you believe—is it a thing that your experience warrants you to believe—that he contemplates this for the child of Heaven knows whom, found Heaven knows where? Tell me that!”
“It is strange, no doubt, and it surprised me greatly, and at first I couldn’t credit it.”
“Nor you don’t now! No, no, Mr. M’Kinlay, ‘don’t be a churl of your confidence. This girl is a Luttrell; confess it?”
“On my honour, I believe she is not.”
“Then I take it they are cleverer folk than I thought them, for they seem to have deceived you.”
“We shall not do it, Sir, in the time,” cried the postilion from his saddle, “unless we start at once.”