In the morning, he said,
'She must not be told, as yet, of what yesterday's paper contained—the mysterious disappearance of her brother, to whom she seems most tenderly attached.'
'But how about the telegram from Southsea?' asked Lucretia. 'No doubt it refers to that event. Indeed, we do not know what it contains, good or bad news. It must be given to her; we have no right to conceal or keep it back, and may commit mischief by doing so.'
Sir Harry tugged his straw-coloured moustache with an air of perplexity, and said, while busy with coffee and game-pie,
'By all means, then; if Lady Puddicombe is to know about her brother—which, I fear, will cut her up more than poor old Puddicombe's catastrophe—there is no one who can break the news to her better than you, Lucretia.'
'How?'
'You are such a precious cool hand, don't you know.'
Miss Hurdell looked as if this was not very flattering, but quitted the luxurious breakfast-table, saying,
'Poor thing, she is not fit to hear any more bad news; she has such a worn-out look already.'
The telegram did refer to Allan—a most unwise mode of breaking such terrible intelligence—but Lady Aberfeldie never doubted that her daughter must have seen the public prints.