“Precisely,” interrupted Mrs Albert. “To be the mother of such a girl, as you say. Little you know what it really means! But, no—I know what you were going to say—please don’t! it is too sad a subject.”
I could do nothing but feebly strive to look my surprise. To think of sadness connected with tall, handsome, good-hearted Ermie, was impossible.
“You think I am exaggerating, I know,” Mrs Albert went on. “Ah, you do not know!”
“Nothing could be more evident,” I replied, “than that I don’t know. I can’t even imagine what on earth you are driving at.”
Mrs Albert paused for a moment, and pushed the toe of her wee slipper meditatively back and forth on the figure of the carpet.
“Yes, I will tell you,” she said at last. “You are such an old friend of the family that you are almost one of us. And besides, you are always sympathetic—so different from Dudley. Well, the point is this. You know the young man—Sir Watkyn’s son—Mr Eustace Hump.”
“I have met him here,” I assented.
“Well, I doubt if you will meet him here any more,” Mrs Albert said, impressively.
“The deprivation shall not drive me to despair or drink,” I assured her. “I will watch over myself.”
“I dare say you did not care much for him,” said Mrs Albert. “I know Dudley didn’t. But, all the same, he was eligible. He is an only son, and his father is a Baronet—an hereditary title—and they are rolling in wealth. And Eustace himself, when you get to know him, has some very admirable qualities. You know he writes!”