Hubert sat very still. "And what did she say?"
"... Said it was true."
There was a pause. "Not as if she meant it?" asked Hubert tentatively.
"She was very angry. She looked splendid. She said that it was at her uncle's own request that she had kept silence—that when she first came to England she was anxious to tell him everything, but was forbidden to mention the subject. If we wanted to know the truth we could write to the Bishop: he knew. Then she got up and took her leave, and went off with the Helstons. Of course I know this is a cock-and-bull story; but I feel ... I ought to have been told."
"Yes," agreed his friend, "you ought to have been told."
"One thing I do wish," said Lance, clenching his fists, "that I had that man Mestaer here to strangle."
"Well, if all our wishes could be as easily granted," said Hubert. "I'm Mestaer."
Lance bounded from his seat, then sank back, as red as fire.
"Is this a time for your rotting?"
"No rotting here. I told you it would mean the breaking of our friendship very likely. I am Hubert Mestaer. I took the name of Brooke because it was English, and my mother's, and I wished to live in England and be English. May I go on, or are you too angry to hear me?"