Edwin was thankful that the excitements of motor traction had diverted her from the uncomfortable subject of his cousin’s profession. . . . if that were the right word to apply to the calling of a shoeing-smith; but the matter still troubled and bewildered him when they went upstairs to bed. It was one that would not wait for explanation, and so he tackled his father as soon as they were alone.
“Father, what was that woman talking about? What did she mean when she said that Uncle Will was a gardener?”
“What did she mean?” Mr. Ingleby laughed. “Why she meant what she said. He is a gardener. He’s never been anything else.”
“But, father . . . it’s impossible.”
“It isn’t impossible, boy. It’s the truth. Didn’t you know? Didn’t mother ever tell you?”
“No. . . . I don’t think she ever spoke of him. I . . . I can’t understand it.”
“You sound as if it had come as a shock to you, Eddie.”
“No . . . yes . . . I suppose it did.”
“You didn’t imagine that you’d find your ancestry in Debrett, Eddie?”
“No . . . but that’s different. It’s . . . it’s sort of bowled me over.”