“We have grown, I fear,” continued Mrs. Kincton Knox, “almost too dependent on him for the enjoyment of our evenings; and I sometimes say, quite seriously to my girl there, Clara, I do trust we are not spoiling Mr. Herbert.”
“He does not look like a spoiled child—rather sad and seedy, doesn’t he?” replied Vane Trevor.
“Does he?” said Miss Clara.
“You’ve seen him, then?” supplemented her mother.
“Yes; had that honour as I mounted the steep walk—how charming that walk is—among the fir-trees. But I did not see anything very unusual about him.”
“I can only say I like him extremely,” observed Mrs. Kincton Knox, in a tone which concluded debate.
“And what do you say, Miss Knox?” inquired Vane Trevor, with one of his arch cackles.
“No; young ladies are not to say all they think, like us old people,” interposed Mrs. Knox; “but he’s a very agreeable young man.”
“Is he?” said Vane Trevor, with irrepressible amazement. “That’s the first time, by Jove! I ever heard poor Maubray”—and hereupon he stopped, remembering that Maubray’s identity was a secret, and he looked, perhaps, a little foolish.
Mrs. Kincton Knox coughed a little, though she was glad to be quite sure that Mr. Winston Maubray was safe under her roof, and did not want him or Vane Trevor to know that she knew it. She therefore coughed a little grandly, and also looked a little put out. But Miss Clara, with admirable coolness, said quite innocently—