'With a pedigree of his family, no doubt, from the grounding of the Ark to the battle of Culloden,' sneered his father.
'Then his family would end soon after ours began,' retorted the son, becoming greatly ruffled now. 'You know, father, we can't count much beyond three generations ourselves.'
Lord Fettercairn, wounded thus in his sorest point, grew white with anger.
'We always suspected you of having some secret, Lennard,' said his mother severely.
'Ah, mother, unfortunately, as some one says, a secret is like a hole in your coat—the more you try to hide it, the more it is seen.'
'An aphorism, and consequently vulgar; does she teach you this style of thing?' asked the haughty lady, while Lennard reddened again with annoyance, and gave his dark moustache a vicious twist, but sighed and strove to keep his temper.
'I have found and felt it very bitter, father, to live under false colours,' said he gently and appealingly, 'and to keep that a secret from you both, which should be no secret at all.'
'We would rather not have heard this secret,' replied Lord Fettercairn sternly, while tugging at his sandy-coloured mutton-chop whiskers.
'Then would you have preferred that I should be deceitful to you, and false to the dear girl who loves and trusts me?'
'I do not choose to consider her,' was the cold reply.