“Oh, I have it now!” broke in Purvis. “It was her mother; Miss Da-a-alton's mother was uncle to a Stafford.”
“Perhaps I can shorten the pedigree,” said Haggerstone, tartly. “The young lady is the daughter of a man whom this same Sir Stafford tricked out of his fortune; they were distant relatives, so he had n't even the plea of blood-relationship to cover his iniquity. It was, however, an Irish fortune, and, like a Spanish chateau, its loss is more a question of feeling than of fact. The lawyers still say that Dalton's right is unimpeachable, and that the Onslows have not even the shadow of a case for a jury.”
“An' have de lady no broder nor sister?” asked the Count, who had heard this story with much attention.
“She has, sir, both brother and sister, but both illegitimate, so that this girl is the heiress to the estate.”
“And probably destined to be the wife of the young Guardsman,” said Mrs. Ricketts.
“Guessed with your habitual perspicuity, madam,” said Haggerstone, bowing.
“How very shocking! What worldliness one sees everywhere!” cried she, plaintively.
“The world is excessively worldly, madam,” rejoined Haggerstone; “but I really believe that we are not a jot worse than were the patriarchs of old.”
“Ah, oui, les patriarches!” echoed the Pole, laughing, and always ready to seize upon an allusion that savored of irreverence.
“Count! Colonel Haggerstone!” cried Mrs. Ricketts, in reproof, and with a look to where Martha sat at her embroidery-frame. “And this Miss Dalton is she pretty?”