"Why 'Poor Mr. Thain'?" the former mused. "Exactly what did Caroline mean, I wonder?"
"I think," Letitia replied, "that she was emphasising the distinction between your acceptance of Mr. Thain and hers."
Her father remained puzzled.
"Mr. Thain has been a guest at my house," he said, "and we shall treat him as a neighbour when we meet at Mandeleys."
"Those things are indications of a friendly feeling," Letitia observed, "but you yourself know where you have placed the barriers. Now Aunt Caroline doesn't mean to have any barriers. If Mr. Thain can be awakened to his great opportunities, it is perfectly clear that she means to enter upon a flirtation with him."
The Marquis was a little shocked.
"You are somewhat blunt, my dear," he said. "So far as your Aunt Caroline is concerned, too, I fear that she has in a measure lost that fine edge—perhaps I should say that very delicate perception of the differences which undoubtedly do exist. I am pointing this out to you, Letitia," he continued, as they left the Park, "but it occurs to me that my doing so is unnecessary. I have noticed that since your entrance into Society, some four or five years ago, you have identified yourself entirely with my views. Nothing could have been more discriminating than your treatment of the various excellent people with whom you have been brought into contact."
Letitia did not speak for a moment. Then she turned to her father with a little sigh.
"An inherited weakness, I suppose," she murmured. "I sometimes rather envy other people their standpoint."
The Marquis made no reply. They were nearing Number 94, and he was conscious of that slight, nervous expectancy which required always a firm hand. The door was opened before they could ring. The young man who served under Gossett was already relieving him of his hat and gloves. With a perfectly leisurely step, the Marquis advanced towards the hall table. He glanced at the superscription of two or three notes, dropped his eyeglass, and turned away towards his study—empty-handed.