“And what is it?” said Mr. Kincton Knox, looking solemnly on his daughter.
“I don’t know that there is anything at all,” replied she quietly.
Mrs. Kincton Knox beckoned him imperiously, and they drew near the window, while the young lady resumed her novel.
“He’s in love with her,” she murmured.
“Who, my dear?”
“Mr. Maubray.”
“Oh! is he?—what Mr. Maubray?” inquired the old gentleman.
“Winston Maubray—probably Sir Winston Maubray, at this moment; his father, you know, is dying, if not dead.”
“Sir Richard, you mean?”
“Of course, I mean Sir Richard.”