“He is quite a darling,” said Nancy; “what a difference he will make in the house.”
“I am glad you have taken to him,” said Rowton; “he is a fine little chap, only you must not let him gossip to you, Nance. The boy has a keen vein of curiosity in him; he knows too much or thinks he does. Now, if you have quite finished breakfast I will take you round.”
They began their exploration, going from room to room and from storey to storey. The house was an old one, and as Rowton showed it to his wife he gave her a brief history of it. It had belonged to his family for several generations, but had been so eaten up by one mortgage after another, that Rowton’s own father had declined to live in the old place.
“But is it mortgaged now?” asked Nancy.
“No,” was the brief response.
“And you are rich, very rich, and your father was poor?”
“Even so, Nancy,” was the somewhat curt reply.
Nancy glanced up at her husband. His eyes looked full into hers; there was a sort of dare devil gleam in them, which she turned away from.
“I see,” she said after a pause, “I must not expect you to confide in me.”