"I will come and see you as often as I can get an opportunity," Jack said warmly. "Apart from the gratification of my vulgar curiosity, I have been wonderfully entertained by your experiences. I saw Lady Barmouth in the hall just now, and I know that she is anxious to learn how we got on together."
Jack went out again, with a feeling that he was more and more drawn towards his unfortunate host. He lingered in the hall for a moment gazing at the fine pictures and the artistic arranging of the flowers, hoping that Lady Barmouth would return. He had not long to wait, for presently she came floating down the stairs again. There was a pleased smile on her face.
"Oh, I am so glad you stayed so long," she said . "My poor George must have enjoyed your society or he would not have detained you. I am sure you got on very well together."
"We got on very well indeed together," Jack explained. "I have now a pretty shrewd idea of this Nostalgo business. During my interview with your husband I made a still more stupendous discovery."
"Something that affects my husband's case?" Lady Barmouth asked eagerly.
"I think it touches it very deeply indeed," Jack said gravely. "May I intrude upon you for another five minutes? Mind you, I have said nothing of this to Lord Barmouth, because it seems to me to concern you alone."
Lady Barmouth led the way back to the small drawing-room again. Her eyes were fairly dancing with curiosity. "It is about your sister," Jack said--"the sister whose photograph stands on the mantelpiece in your husband's room."
"Oh, must we really go into that?" Lady Barmouth asked, with a shade of coldness in her voice. "There are matters so sacred that even the most sincere friend----"
"Believe me, I am speaking under the strongest sense of duty," Jack urged. "Nothing else would induce me to speak. Lord Barmouth told me it was a very painful subject, but we must go into it."
"It is a painful subject," Lady Barmouth murmured. "She was my youngest sister, and very dear to us all. I do not say she had no faults; indeed, she had far too many. But she was very lovable in spite of her headstrong ways and her quick fits of passion. She never got on particularly well with my father, who all the same cared for her very much indeed. She was sent at the age of seventeen from Southern Mexico, where we lived at that time, to finish her education in London. I don't know why, but it seemed to be assumed that she was the daughter of very rich parents, and that in the course of time she would inherit a great deal of money. Be that as it may, she contrived to fall head over heels in love with her music-master, and they ran away together and got married. We never quite knew the name of the man; however, it was something quite foreign, and, judging from what happened afterwards, probably was no more than an alias. My sister's letter to her father announcing her marriage was returned to her unread, and she was given to understand that she could no longer consider herself one of the family. That sorry scoundrel who had brought so much unhappiness on the poor girl's head basely deserted her, and from that day to this I have seen nothing of the poor child.