Mary did not fail to understand that it was now her turn to question.
“You have friends there?”
“A friend. If you will listen I will tell you a story.”
He related all that he knew of the history of Isabel Clarendon, as if it had been told to him or he had read it somewhere, up to the time of his first meeting with her; he described her exactly, and described Ada Warren also, the latter, as far as his knowledge allowed, with perfect justice.
“One of those, Mary, is my friend; which do you think?”
“You have made it too easy to guess,” his sister answered good-naturedly. She had listened with the utmost attention, leaning forward, her arms crossed upon her sewing. “Not Miss Warren!”
“But I do not dislike her; you mustn’t think that.”
“Still, you would not go all the way to Knightswell to see her.”
He said nothing. Mary was nervously impatient.
“But what a strange, strange story! And she—Mrs. Clarendon—may be sent from her home any day? Is Miss Warren likely to marry?”