“I went carefully over my father’s pedigree, Miss Marguerite,” said Madelaine quietly.
“Indeed, my child?” said the lady, raising her brows.
“And I found without doubt that the Venelttes fled during the persecutions to Holland, where they stayed for half a century, and changed their names to Van Heldre before coming to England.”
“Quite right,” said Van Heldre in a low voice. “Capital cream.”
“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Margaret; “but, my dear child, such papers are often deceptive.”
“Yes,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “often enough: so are traditions and many of our beliefs about ancestry; but I hope I have enough of what you call the haute noblesse in me to give way, and not attempt to argue the point.”
“No, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Margaret, with a smile of pity and good-humoured contempt; “we have often argued together upon this question, but I cannot sit in silence and hear you persist in that which is not true. No; you have not any Huguenot blood in your veins.”
“My clear madam, I feel at times plethoric enough to wish that the old-fashioned idea of being blooded in the spring were still in vogue. I have so much Huguenot blood in my veins, that I should be glad to have less.”
Aunt Margaret shook her head, and tightened her lips.
“Low Dutch,” she said to herself, “Low Dutch.”