“Dear me!” said Mrs. Mowbray, in a querulous voice. “Servants are such dreadful plagues. Worry! why, it's nothing else but worry! And they're so shockingly impertinent. They really have no sense of respect. I don't know for my part what the world's coming to. I suppose it's all these dreadful radicals and newspapers and working-men's clubs and things. When I was young it was not so.”
“You have not been in Dalton Hall since you were a young girl, Miss Dalton?” said Mowbray, inquiringly.
“No; not for ten years.”
“Do you find it much changed?”
“Very much—and for the worse. I have had great difficulties to contend with.”
“Indeed?” said Mowbray, indifferently.
“Well, at any rate, you have a noble old place, with every thing around you to make you enjoy life.”
“Yes—all but one thing.”
“Ah?”
“I am a prisoner here, Captain Mowbray,” said Edith, with an appealing glance and a mournful tone.