“I’m afraid we haven’t such a thing in the house,” she said. “A friend of Mr. Bradfield’s has just arrived from town unexpectedly, so we have been running our eyes over the stores to see what we could give him to eat to stave off his hunger until Mr. Bradfield comes home to luncheon.”
“Who is it, mother?” asked Chris, in whom Mrs. Abercarne noted this curiosity as a sign that Lilith’s visit had done her good.
“Oh, the unfortunate person who sprained his ankle on Christmas day.”
“Mr. Marrable!” Chris clasped her hands with a fresh access of excitement. “Mother, let me see him at once. Do let me.”
Both the other ladies were a good deal surprised at this demand, and the vehemence with which it was expressed. But there was no resisting her importunity; and therefore, as soon as Lilith had reluctantly taken her departure, Mr. Marrable, as shy and nervous as ever, was shown up into the Chinese-room.
He expressed his delight at the honour Miss Abercarne had done him by admitting him, and was proceeding to utter some old-fashioned compliments which he had been preparing on the way upstairs, when Chris, by a look at her mother, induced that lady to leave the room. Then the girl turned to Mr. Marrable, and exhibited a sudden energy which startled that rather flaccid gentleman.
“Mr. Marrable,” she said imperiously, “I have heard you talk of an old friend of yours and Mr. Bradfield’s, named Gilbert Wryde.”
At the mention of the name, Mr. Marrable started violently.
“Yes, yes, er—er—I may have mentioned him; I say I may have mentioned him,” he answered feebly, looking round as if he hoped to find a way of escape.
“This Gilbert Wryde had a son, I think you said?”