“Your father was not rich, then?”
“No, not at all rich.”
“He was a professional man, I suppose?”
“No, he had no profession. He had been rich—very rich—once.”
The colour rose to Eleanor’s face as she spoke, for she suddenly recollected that she had a secret to keep. The lawyer might recognize George Vane by this description, she thought.
Gilbert Monckton fancied that sudden blush arose from wounded pride.
“Forgive me for asking you so many questions, Miss Vincent,” he said, gently. “I am very much interested in you. I have been very much interested in you for a long time.”
He was silent for some minutes. Eleanor had resumed her seat near the window, and sat in a thoughtful attitude, with her eyes cast upon the ground. She was wondering how she was to make good use of this interview, and discover as much as possible of Launcelot Darrell’s antecedents.
“Will you forgive me if I ask you a few more questions, Miss Vincent?” the lawyer asked, after this brief silence.
Eleanor raised her eyes, and looked him full in the face. That bright, straight, unfaltering gaze was perhaps the greatest charm which Miss Vane possessed. She had no reason to complain that Nature had gifted her with a niggardly hand; she had beauty of feature, of outline, of colour; but this exquisitely candid expression was a rarer beauty, and a higher gift.