Lady Estelle was not nineteen. Her mother felt that this tale of a foundling was not a proper thing to pour into the ear of innocence.
"Really, my dear, I was shocked at the bishop's speaking of such a thing before you," said her Grace of Downsbury.
"Why, mamma, there may be nothing really wrong about it after all," said Lady Estelle, quietly, and the duchess privately thanked Heaven for her daughter's simplicity.
"There is always some wrong where there is concealment," said the duchess, with decision. "Honor does not shun the day. I prefer you do not talk of it, Estelle."
"But, dear mamma, I want to know. So little happens here in the country, I hoped it was something to interest me."
"No, my dear. Only a little child, left at Mark Brace's door—with some money—and I think that is all, my dear."
"And Mark Brace is going to keep the child, mamma?"
"So I understand. Very admirable, honest people, the Braces."
"It is just like a novel, mamma—nicer than a written one. I am sick of novels, as I am sick of everything. I would like to see that child, if it is so pretty, mamma."
"My dearest love! But Brackenside is fifteen miles off, and you could not go so far in this chill autumn weather. You know the doctor says you must get to Italy at once."