“Mother!” exclaimed the young girl, in surprise. “What in the world is the matter? I was only laughing—besides—” she stopped, puzzled. “Tell me the truth, mother,” she continued suddenly. “You know about his people—his father is some connection of—of your first husband—there’s some disgraceful story about them—tell me the truth. Why shouldn’t I know?”
“I hope you never will!” answered Mrs. Bowring, in a low voice that had a sort of horror in it.
“Then there is something?” Clare herself turned a little paler as she asked the question.
“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me!”
“Something disgraceful?” The young girl leaned forward as she spoke, and her eyes were wide and anxious, forcing her mother to speak.
“Yes—no,” faltered Mrs. Bowring. “Nothing to do with this one—something his father did long ago.”
“Dishonourable?” asked Clare, her voice sinking lower and lower.
“No—not as men look at it—oh, don’t ask me! Please don’t ask me—please don’t, darling!”
“Then his yacht is named after you,” said the young girl in a flash of intelligence.
“His yacht?” asked the elder woman excitedly. “What? I don’t understand.”