‘Who knows? I may be able to be of use to her. But, you say she is such a grave and learned young lady? I am afraid we should bore each other.’
To this, Horace could venture only an uncertain reply. He had not much hope of mutual understanding between his sister and Mrs. Damerel.
At half-past five he was home again, and there followed a cheerless evening. Nancy was in her own room until nine o’clock. She came down for supper, but had no appetite; her eyes showed redness from weeping; Horace could say nothing for her comfort. After the meal, they went up together to the drawing-room, and sat unoccupied.
‘If we lose father,’ said Nancy, in a dull voice very unlike her ordinary tones, ‘we shall have not a single relative left, that is anything to us.’
Her brother kept silence.
‘Has Mrs. Damerel,’ she continued, ‘ever said anything to you about mother’s family?’
After hesitation, Horace answered, ‘Yes,’ and his countenance showed that the affirmative had special meaning. Nancy waited with an inquiring look.
‘I haven’t told you,’ he added, ‘because—we have had other things to think about. But Mrs. Damerel is mother’s sister, our aunt.’
‘How long have you known that?’
‘She told me at Scarborough.’