"England is not my native place," said Harriet, calmly. "I was born at
Gibraltar."
"At Gibraltar! You surprise me. Of course your mother was not a native of Gibraltar?"
"Of course not. My mother was an American—born and bred and married in New York."
"I suppose you scarcely remember her?"
"Scarcely," the young lady repeated, dryly; "since I never saw her."
"Indeed! She died then—"
"At my birth—yes. And now, Sir Everard"—the bright, clear eyes flashed suddenly full upon him—"is the catechism almost at an end?"
He absolutely recoiled. If ever guilt was written on a human face, it was readily written on his.
"Ah!" Miss Hunsden said, scornfully, "you thought I couldn't find you out—you thought I couldn't see your drift. Have a better opinion of my powers of penetration next time, Sir Everard. My poor father, impoverished in purse, broken in health, sensitive in spirit, chooses to hide his wounds—chooses not to wear his heart on his sleeve for the Devonshire daws to peck at—chooses never to speak of his lost wife—and, lo! all the gossips of the country are agape for the news. She was an actress, was she not, Sir Everard? And when I ride across the country, at the heels of the hounds, it is only the spangles, and glitter, and theater glare breaking out again. I could despise it in others, but I did think better things of the son of my father's oldest friend! Good-morning, Sir Everard."
She turned proudly away.