“I was merely thinking of your attending poor Sir Richard’s obsequies.”
“The funeral? I—I should not like to attend it uninvited,” answered William. “I don’t know that I should be a welcome guest; in fact, I know I should not—young Maubray⸺”
“Your brother?” inquired the lady, who did not remember any such incumbrance in the record she had consulted.
“No, my cousin.”
“Cousin? And what right could a cousin pretend to exclude you from your father’s funeral?” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, unfeignedly amazed.
“I’m speaking of Sir Richard Maubray, my uncle. My father has been a long time dead—when I was a mere child.”
“Oh, yes, of course—dead a long time,” repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, slowly, as the horrible bewilderment in which she had been lost began to clear away. “Oh, yes, your uncle, Sir Richard Maubray; of course—of course that would alter—I—I was speaking of your father—I did not know you had lost him so long ago—it, of course, it’s quite another thing, and—a—and—you wish to go to Mrs. Purity?”
“No—Perfect⸺not to go there—not to Gilroyd, only to Cambridge, to see Doctor Sprague.”
“Very well—a—very well—I don’t see—I shall mention it to Mr. Kincton Knox; have you anything more to say to me, Mr.—Mr.—pray what am I to call you? Herbert, I suppose?”
“Nothing, but to thank you—you’ve been so good, so very kind to me.”