“And so you know Leonard? How strange! Do you see much of one another?”
“Naturally, considering that there are only three of us at Dr. Randall’s,” I reminded him.
“Ah, just so! And your other fellow pupil is young Lord Silchester, is he not? Rather an awkward number, three. Do you all chum together pretty well?”
What was I to say? I could not tell him that my relations with his son were decidedly inimical; so, after a moment’s hesitation, I answered a little evasively:
“I’m afraid we’re not a very sociable trio. You see, Cis and I are very keen on out-of-door amusements, and your son rather prefers reading.”
He nodded.
“Yes; I quite understand. You and Lord Silchester are thoroughly English, and essentially so in your tastes and love of sport. Leonard, now, is more than half a foreigner. His mother was an Austrian lady, and I myself am of French extraction. By the by, Mr. Morton, may I ask you a question—in confidence?” he added slowly.
“Certainly.”
“It is about Leonard. I don’t think that you need have any scruples about telling me, for I am his father, you know, and have a certain right to know everything about him.”
He looked at me gravely, as though for confirmation of his words, and I silently expressed my assent. Leonard de Cartienne was nothing to me; and if his father was going to ask me the question which I hoped he was, he should have a straightforward answer.