I shook my head decidedly.
“He would be far less likely to know of him than I should,” I assured her. “He knows a good deal less of the people around here. His interests are altogether amongst the poorer classes. And he has left my sister and me to receive and pay all the calls. He is not at all fond of society.”
“Philip Maltabar may be poor—now,” she said musingly. “He was never rich.”
“If he were poor, he would not be living here,” I said. “The poor of whom I speak are the peasantry. It is not like a town, you know. Any man such as the Mr. Maltabar you speak of would be more than ever a marked figure living out of his class amongst villagers. In any case he would not be the sort of man whom my father would be likely to visit.”
“I suppose you are right,” she answered, doubtfully. “At any rate—since I am here—there would be no harm in asking your father, would there?”
“Certainly not,” I answered. “I daresay he will be here in a few moments.”
Almost as I spoke he passed the window, and I heard his key in the front door. The girl, who had seen his shadow, looked up quickly.
“Is that he?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Yes. You can ask him for yourself now.”