“I know, an old friend of poor Sir Richard’s; but whatever else you do, I suppose we must make up our minds to lose you for a week or so; your absence would be of course remarked upon, in fact, those feelings never survive the grave, and there are sacrifices to decorum. Your friends, and you know there are those here who feel an interest; no one could advise your staying away.”
“My aunt is not ill?” said William with a sudden and horrible misgiving, for the lady’s manner was unmistakably funereal.
“Ill?—I haven’t heard. I have not the honour of knowing Miss Purity,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“Perfect,” interrupted William—“thank God! I mean that she’s not ill.”
“I was thinking not of your aunt, but of your poor father; there are things to be looked after; you are of age.”
“Yes, three-and-twenty,” said William, with a coolness that under so sudden a bereavement was admirable.
“Not quite that, two-and-twenty last May,” said the student of the Peerage.
William knew he was right, but the point, an odd one for Mrs. Kincton Knox to raise—was not worth disputing.
“And, considering the circumstances under which, although you will not admit the estrangement, poor Sir Richard Maubray has been taken⸺”
“Sir Richard! Is Sir Richard dead?” exclaimed William.