“Yes, he is; he wasn’t a bad fellow, poor Maubray. But it’s a long time—thirty—thirty-eight years—yes—since we were at Oxford.”
“And his son’s in the house.”
“Here?”
“Yes, this house, here.”
“Very happy to see him, I’m sure, very happy—we’ll do all in our power,” said Mr. Kincton Knox, very much at sea as to the cause of his arrival.
“You know Mr. Herbert?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s he—Mr. Herbert is Mr. Winston Maubray. If you were to stare till Doomsday it won’t change the fact; here he is, and has been—and has confessed to me that he likes Clara. He’s very modest, almost shy, and without any kind of management on my part; had I stooped to that as other mothers do, she’d have been married, no doubt, long ago—simply placing them under the same roof, perceiving that he was a gentleman; ascertaining who he was, I left the rest to—to—you see, and the consequence is—as I’ve told you, and—and humanly speaking—she’ll be Lady Maubray.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Kincton Knox.
“Perhaps you don’t like it?”