The ladies fell into earnest conference that morning after breakfast, so soon as William and his pupil had withdrawn.
“W. M.! Everything marked with W. M.—Winston Maubray. Don’t you see?” said the old lady, with a nod, and her dark and prominent eyes fixed suddenly on her daughter.
“Yes, of course; and did you look at his face when I mentioned the quarrel with Sir Richard?” said the young lady.
“Did you ever see anything like it?” exclaimed her mother.
Miss Clara smiled mysteriously, and nodded her acquiescence.
“Why, my dear, it was the colour of that,” continued Mrs. Kincton Knox, pointing her finger fiercely at the red leather back of the chair that stood by them. “I don’t think there can be a doubt. I know there’s none in my mind.”
“It is very curious—very romantic. I only hope that we have not been using him very ill,” said Miss Clara, and she laughed more heartily than was her wont.
“Ill! I don’t know what you mean. I trust, Clara, no one is ever ill-used at Kincton. It certainly would rather surprise me to hear anything of the kind,” retorted the lady of Kincton, loftily.
“Well, I did not mean ill, exactly. I ought to have said rudely. I hope we have not been treating him like a—a—what shall I say?—all this time,” and the young lady laughed again.
“We have shown him, Clara, all the kindness and consideration which a person entering this house in the capacity he chose to assume could possibly have expected. I don’t suppose he expected us to divine by witchcraft who and what he was; and I am very certain that he would not have thought as—as highly of us, if we had acted in the slightest degree differently.”