"Indeed I sha'n't," said Adrian. "There may be beauty or ugliness, fitness or unfitness, in one's last home as well as any other. Yes, I wish he were here. But he was an unlucky fellow; it seemed as if he were never to have anything he wanted, didn't it?"
"How do you mean—not anything?"
"Well, I think he would have liked Mitchelhurst Place."
"Yes," said Barbara, "he would, I know."
"And I am sure he would have liked the name of Rothwell. He was ashamed of his father's people. That pork-butcher rankled."
"Oh!" said Barbara, still looking at the tombs, "did you know about that? Did everybody know?" She spoke very softly, as if she thought the dusty Rothwell, peering out of his marble curls, might overhear. "No, I suppose he didn't like him."
"I know he didn't. Well, he hadn't the name he liked: he was saddled with the pork-butcher's name. And then, worst of all, he couldn't have you, Barbara!"
She turned upon him with parted lips and a startled face.
"Well," said Scarlett, "he couldn't, you know."
"Adrian! how did you know he cared for me? He did, but how did you know it? I thought I ought not to tell anybody."