Naturally the two began to talk of America, and when Mr. Evarts spoke of Cincinnati as his home, she said:
“I have a friend who was once at school there. Everard Forrest, of Rothsay, do you know him?”
She had no idea that he did, and was astonished at the vehemence with which he responded:
“Ned Forrest, of Rothsay! Of course I know him. We were at school together. He’s the best fellow in the world. And he is your friend, too?”
“Yes,” Josey answered, beginning at once to calculate how much knowledge of Everard she would confess to. “I knew him when he was in college at Amherst. We lived in Holburton then, a little town over the line in New York, and he was sometimes there, but I have not seen him for a long time. I hope he is well.”
“He was the last time I saw him, which was three or four months ago, perhaps more,” Mr. Evarts replied. “He was in the city for a day, and I saw him just a moment. He is working like a dog; sticks to his business like a burr, which is so different from what I thought he’d do, and he so rich, too.”
“Is he?” Josephine asked; and Evarts replied:
“Why, yes; his father must have been worth half a million, at least, and Ned got the whole, I suppose. There are no other heirs, unless something was given to that girl who lived in the family. Rosamond Hastings was the name, I think.”
“Is his father dead?” Josephine asked; and in her voice there was a sharp ring which even stupid Phil Evarts detected and wondered at.
“Dead? Yes,” he replied. “He has been dead I should say nearly, if not quite, two years.”