"I'm sure, Herbert, dear, you said quite as much as I did!" she declared, evidently finding relief in the knowledge. "Still—this news does rather make one—think."
The girl rattled the sheet of paper excitedly.
"I'm thinking!" she announced, her eyes wide. "I'm thinking of Colmere Abbey! What a chance for some rich decent American! Somebody that one could easily endure, you understand!"
"Hilda!"
She waved aside the reprimand.
"Grace understands me—and what I think of Americans," she answered quickly. "But, mother, this is a problem! What Englishman would buy the place—with its haunting tales—and monstrous value? Nobody would be rich enough except one of the millionaires who owns a dozen homes already. And the next-of-kin will inherit nothing along with the place to keep it up!"
"Hilda! This is neither respectful nor neighborly," her mother remonstrated again, then she turned to her husband. "Shall you write to the new Lord Erskine from London, Herbert?"
Her tone was one of foregone conclusion, conventional enough, but very kindly, and her husband nodded obediently.
"Oh, to be sure, my dear," he chirruped in a dutiful way. "I shall wire his lawyers immediately and——"
"And ask for the pleasure of putting him up while he's in the country?"