“At home they said I must put it up on my eighteenth birthday,” Sydney volunteered.
“At ‘home’?” questioned the marquess, with raised eyebrows.
“I mean in London,” she explained, speaking rather low. “Mother always said I must not keep it down after I was eighteen, but Hugh didn’t want it to go up.”
“Who is Hugh?” St Quentin’s tone was rather sharp; Sydney wondered if he were in pain.
“Hugh is the eldest of us, but not a bit stuck-up or elder-brotherish because of that. He is such a dear boy and very clever too. Why, he has an appointment at the Blue-Friars’ Hospital that most men don’t get till they’re ever so old, over thirty! And Hugh is so nice too, at home; he and I are special friends——”
Sydney could not understand what made her cousin’s voice sound so unpleasant as he interrupted her with another question:
“How old is this paragon?”
“Twenty-four last birthday, Cousin St. Quentin.” She no longer felt inclined to enlarge upon Hugh’s merits.
“Does he write to you?”
“Of course he does.”