"It is a most uncommon name."
Julian carefully refrained from questioning.
"I told you I might know something about her! The girl who jilted poor Clarence Isbister in that abominable way was a Miss Marchrose."
"It doesn't seem probable that this girl could have any connection with the woman who jilted your cousin Clarence; she is a certified teacher of shorthand and typewriting."
"Well, Clarence's girl was nobody at all, and she was older than he, poor boy—the Isbisters were not at all pleased about it, I remember. But they'd made up their minds to it, and it was all arranged, and then came this thunderbolt."
"If it was such an unpopular engagement, the Isbisters may owe her a debt of gratitude for throwing him over."
"Ah, it was more than that. Don't you remember, Julian? They'd been engaged six weeks, and Clarence was like a lunatic about her, and simply made his father and mother consent to it all, and they kept on saying the girl wasn't good enough for him, and didn't seem to care for him much. And then he had that appalling hunting smash."
"I remember," said Sir Julian, "when they thought he was going to be paralysed for the rest of his life, poor chap."
"So he was, from the waist downwards, for nearly a year, and all the doctors said that his recovery was a perfect miracle. But when he was still helpless, and nobody knew if he had to be an invalid or not, he offered to release Miss Marchrose from the engagement—and she gave him up."
"H'm," said Julian noncommittally.