"I did," said Daisy.
"There was a fellow of the same name who lived at Weir," observed Hunt-Goring. "He was the doctor's assistant; had to leave in something of a hurry, I believe. There was the beginning of a scandal, but it was hushed up—strangled at birth, so to speak."
"What?" said Daisy. She looked across at him swiftly, her dignity and work alike forgotten.
Hunt-Goring still smiled placidly. "I daresay it might be described as a regrettable incident. It concerned the sudden death of a young girl at which event the said Dr. Wyndham presided. I really shouldn't have mentioned it if it hadn't been for the familiarity of the name."
"They are brothers," said Daisy.
"Really! That is strange." Again Hunt-Goring barely concealed a yawn. "Olga Ratcliffe used to be somewhat smitten with the young man in what I might call her calf days. Doubtless she has got over that by now, especially as the girl who died was a friend of hers."
"But she can't know of that!" said Daisy quickly. "She has been very ill, you know—an illness brought on by the shock of it all."
"Indeed!" said Hunt-Goring, and became significantly silent.
Daisy continued to look at him. "She has not got over it," she said slowly at length, speaking as though uttering her thoughts aloud. "He is out here now, arrived only last week. And—they are engaged to be married."
"Chacun à son goût!" observed Hunt-Goring.