"I remember that the first son died, Bill, but..." I paused and waited for him to continue.
"He broke his neck in the hunting field the day after he came of age. And the accident broke his mother's heart. They were absolutely wrapped up in that boy—both of 'em.... Six months later she died in Scotland, at Fingarton...." He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and unconsciously my eyes wandered to the youngster at the neighbouring table.
"And where exactly does the good-fortune part of it come in?" I asked at length.
"This way," he answered. "They idolized the boy, and he certainly was the first thing in their lives. But when he died, the thing that came only one degree behind their love for him of necessity took first place.... Family.... While he lived, the two things were synonymous: they both centred in the boy himself.... And he was a splendid boy—better even than this one." Again he paused, and smoked for a while in silence. "You see—Betty Fingarton was too old to have another child, when the accident took place ... I think that fact hastened her death. And the man who would have come into the title was an outsider of the purest water—a distant cousin of sorts.... Bob used to move about like a man in a dream—dazed with the tragedy of it all. But I remember that even then, before she died, he realized that her death would—how shall I put it—help matters. Not that he ever said anything: but I knew Bob pretty well those days ... I've lost sight of him a bit since.... It was a horrible position for the poor old chap. The Fingartons have kept their line direct since 1450. Family was his God ... and he idolized Betty. Then she died; and Bob married again.... Quite a nice girl, and she made him a thundering good wife.... But he told me the night before he married, that the price of duty could sometimes be passing high.... It was with him...."
My host paused and sipped his brandy, while the girl at my side whispered a little breathlessly:
"I didn't know all that, daddy. Poor old Uncle Bob!"
I looked at her inquiringly, and she smiled.
"He's always been uncle to me," she explained. "Though lately I've hardly seen him at all.... He buries himself more and more up at Fingarton...."
"And what of the present Lady Fingarton?" I inquired.
"I like her—she's a dear," answered the girl. "Though I think daddy always compares her with the first one." Her father smiled, but said nothing. "She is generally here in Town.... She likes to be near Bobby...."