'I have heard your name coupled with Mr. Penwyn's—the poor Mr. Penwyn.'
'I only know one Mr. Penwyn.'
'So much the worse for you, my dear. You know the wrong one. There is a cousin of that young man's who has a fine estate in Cornwall—the Penwyn estate. You must have heard of that.'
'Yes, I have heard Mr. Penwyn speak of his cousin's property.'
'Of course. Poor penniless young man; very natural that he should talk of it. Don't suppose that I have no feeling for him. He is next heir to the property, but no doubt the other young man, James Penwyn's son, will marry and have a herd of children. I knew James Penwyn, this young man's father, years ago. There were three brothers—George, the eldest, who was in the army, and was killed in a skirmish with some wild Indians in Canada—very sad story; James, who was in the church, and had a living somewhere near London; and Balfour, in the law, I believe, whose son you know.'
'Yes,' sighed Madge.
She had heard the family history from Churchill Penwyn, but the dowager liked to hear herself talk, and did not like to be interrupted.
'Now, if by any chance the present James Penwyn, who is little more than a lad, were to die unmarried, Churchill Penwyn could come into the property under his grandfather's will, which left the estate to the eldest surviving son and his children after him. George died unmarried. James left an only son. Churchill is therefore heir presumptive. But it's a very remote contingency, my love, and it would be madness for you to give it a thought—with your chances.'
Madge shrugged her shoulders despondently.
'I don't think my chances are particularly brilliant, Lady Cheshunt.'