“My dear Mrs. Vansittart, the less said about Harold Marchant the better. If he is dead the good old saying comes in—de mortuis. If he is alive I think the less you, or your son, or your daughter-in-law have to do with him the happier it will be for you.”
“Mr. Sefton, it is not fair to talk to me in this way. I am personally interested in Eve’s brother. What do you mean?”
“Only what I might mean about a good many young men who have lived within the walls that sheltered Bacon and Newton, Whewell and Macaulay. Harold Marchant’s career at Cambridge was a foolish career. Instead of devoting himself to the higher mathematics he gave himself up to hunting, horse-racing, and other amusement of a more dangerous order. He had to leave the University hurriedly—he had to leave the country still more hastily. He has never within my knowledge come back to England. Eve is, or was, passionately attached to him, and to gratify her I have taken a good deal of trouble in trying to find out his present whereabouts and mode of life; but without avail. It is nearly ten years since he left this country. He was then two and twenty years of age. He was last heard of more than five years ago with an exploring party in Mashonaland. He is exactly the kind of young man one would like to hear of in Central Africa, and intending to stay there!”
“Poor Eve; how sad for her!”
“But that is all over now. She has a new love, and will soon forget her brother.”
“I do not think she is so shallow as that.”
“Not shallow, but intense.”
Dinner was announced at this moment, and Sir Hubert came to offer Mrs. Vansittart his arm. He was to have his mother-in-law on his right hand and Eve on his left, and Mr. Sefton was to sit by his hostess on the other side of the table. This ended the conversation about Harold Marchant, and it was not renewed after dinner.
CHAPTER XIV.
AS A SPIRIT FROM DREAM TO DREAM.