"And what does he contribute?"
"I think seventy or eighty. You see, he lives at home."
"How is that?" Mr. Desborough inquired sharply.
"He is a private secretary to Paul Charteris. You have heard of him, I suppose? His ground adjoins ours."
"Paul?" repeated her uncle. "Paul? That was not the name, surely?"
"You are thinking of the father, Philip Charteris," explained Hazel. "He died, years ago; then Vivian died, his eldest son, and now it is Paul."
"So it is Paul now. What is he like?" And Percival Desborough eyed the girl keenly.
"You would like him," she returned with enthusiasm. "You feel you can confide in him. To me he is almost like one of my brothers, only, of course, he is much older. But he appears quite young—somehow you forget his age."
"What is his age?"
"Oh, he must be thirty," Hazel answered, as one who speaks, with both pity and reverence, of a life well-nigh spent.