“What, you mean here at Beauleys?” Lady Mary asked.
“On Beacon Hill,” her husband assented. “It was seven years ago, and as you can gather from his present appearance, he was little more than a boy. He sat there in the twilight, seeing things down in the valley which did not and never had existed—seeing things that never were born, you know—things for which you stretch out your arms, only to find them float away. He was quite young, of course.”
Lady Mary turned around.
“Henry!” she exclaimed.
“My dear?”
“You are absolutely the most irritating person I ever attempted to live with!”
“And I have tried so hard to make myself agreeable,” he sighed.
“You are one of those uncomfortable people,” she declared, “who loathe what they call the obvious, and adore riddles. You would commit any sort of mental gymnastic rather than answer a plain question in a straightforward manner.”
“It is perfectly true,” he admitted. “You have such insight, my dear Mary.”
“I am to take it, then,” she continued, “that you know absolutely nothing about your protégé? You know nothing, for instance, about his family, or his means?”