“Oh, here are the children,” observed Mrs Ruthven, hoping to break up the party. “My dears, don’t leave the room; I want you to stay beside me. There now, you may each carry your own porridge-bowl into the kitchen, and then you may come back for papa’s and mine.”
Mr Ruthven stalked out into the garden, to find fault with his cabbages, if they were not growing dutifully. Lady Carse stood by the window, fretted at the thick seamy glass which prevented her seeing anything clearly. Mrs Ruthven sat down to sew.
“Mamma,” said Adam, presently, “what is a Pretender?”
“A what, my dear?—a Pretender? I really scarcely know. That is a question that you should ask your papa. A Pretender?”
“No, no, Adam. It is Adventurer. That was what the steward said. I know it, because that is the name of one of papa’s books. I will show it you.”
“I know that,” said Adam. “But Widow Fleming called it Pretender, too.”
“What’s that?” cried Lady Carse, turning hastily from the window. “What are you talking about?”
The children looked at each other, as they usually did when somebody must answer the lady. “What are you talking about?”
“The steward says the Pretender has come: and we do not know what that means.”
“The Pretender come!” cried Mrs Ruthven, letting fall her work. “What shall we do for news? Run, my dears, and ask Widow Fleming all about it. I can’t leave Lady Carse, you see.”