Mrs. de Burgh laughed.
"A villain," she repeated, "not quite so bad as that I hope, though not very good I am afraid. A villain! no, we must manage to get that idea at least out of the young lady's head."
"But how?" Eugene asked.
"Why, really, I don't know; let me see—I will write to her—though letters are not worth much. I wish, indeed, I could get her here away from her relations, who are all such terribly good people."
Eugene Trevor drew his chair eagerly forward.
"What here, do you really mean it—do you think it possible—that there would be any chance of her consenting to come?"
"I do not see why it should be impossible—at any rate we can try, and I flatter myself I am not a little clever about these sort of things. Oh, depend upon it, poor girl, she will only be too glad to be persuaded into loving you again. But then, Eugene, I must be sure that you really are in earnest—that the affair will be really brought to a decided issue, before I move again in the business. I burnt my fingers too severely with it before, and brought upon myself quite sufficient odium. What does Mary say in her letter? I must be quite au fait in the business, you know, and understand what I am about."
"You shall know everything," said Eugene, approaching nearer, and subduing his tone to a confidential whisper. "It is a more complicated matter than you suppose. There is one very serious point to be dealt with: you will be surprised when you hear that it relates to my unlucky brother."
Mrs. de Burgh started, and looked a little uncomfortable.
"First of all," he added in still lower tones; "but," pausing suddenly, "will you be so good as to tell that young gentleman not to stare me out of countenance," alluding to his cousin's eldest boy, a delicate and serious-looking child, who sat on his mother's sofa, his intelligent eyes with earnest scrutiny rivetted upon Eugene's countenance, as he sat there with bent brow, and dark look of brooding care.