“But—but the wife of a drunkard, Hubert! What money can smooth that away? What happiness can that bring?” murmured Mrs. Pennington, faintly.
“Sure,” Hubert Kestridge said, firmly—since he had come to offer sympathy and comfort he saw no reason why he should not give it in full measure—“sure, and I think, Aunt Phœbe, dear, you’ll find that’s a story that maybe has but little truth in it. Christina’s a mighty particular lady now, isn’t she? And is she, do you think, going to mate herself with a man that has no right to the name?”
“I believe,” cried Polly, viciously, from the end of the table, “I firmly believe, mother darling, that that nasty Mr. Ambleton just came here and took away Sir Mark’s character out of spite. It was very impertinent of him to come at all, I consider, especially when he had nothing but disagreeable things to say.”
Hubert glanced up, and his face changed expression a little.
“Ambleton?” he said. “Are you speaking of Valentine Ambleton, I wonder?”
“We are speaking,” observed Polly, loftily, “of an enormous brute who came here one day, and forced his way in, and just made mother as ill as she could be. Don’t say you know anything nice about him, please, Hubert, because he was just as rude and horrid a man as anyone wants to meet.”
“I did not see him,” Winnie interpolated, in her even, pretty voice.
Winnie always chose the moment to speak softly after Polly had been more than usually vehement and furious. She studied the value of contrast in all things.
“Do you know him, Hubert?” Mrs. Pennington asked, tremulously.
Hubert Kestridge evaded the question a little.