"She is not a criminal, but a lady," said his aunt, as though the two things were incompatible; "and you do know her. Mona Chent, the niece of old Sir Oliver Lanwin."
Prelice reflected with bent brows. "I never heard the name before, I assure you, Aunt Sophia," he said at length. "Remember that I have been travelling round the world for the last seven years and know very little of the latest London sensation."
"You ought to stay at home, and make yourself acquainted with people, Prelice."
"Including this murderess?"
"She is not a murderess," cried Lady Sophia energetically. "I always did think that she was a sweet girl, and if she did kill her uncle, it was no more than he deserved. I never liked him."
"Therefore he ought to be murdered," said Prelice, rising and stretching himself before the empty grate. "So Sir Oliver was the victim. I have heard of him. He used to send Ned shells and barbaric things from the South Seas. And now Ned is repaying him by defending his murderess."
"I tell you Mona did not murder the man. I know her. I have received her. Would I receive a murderess?"
"It might be a draw to some of your parties," said Prelice politely, and with a recollection of several dull entertainments. "But I cannot quite gather from your clear explanation if she is guilty or not."
"Half London thinks that she is, and half asserts her innocence."
"What does Shepworth think?"