“I don’t know what you mean, Frogmore,” she said, her color changing. “It is impossible to me to make out what you mean. You seem to speak in riddles. I don’t know who this child is you have taken such a fancy to. But you mustn’t expect me to follow you in that. I will do anything for your sake, dear, but to give myself up to a strange child whom I know nothing about——”
“Whom you know nothing about! Oh, Mary, my poor Mary,” he cried.
“Whom I know nothing at all about,” she said with some vehemence. “The one I suppose that comes in to play with Duke. Frogmore, I hope you have not given Duke’s place in your heart to any stranger. Oh, I say nothing against the boy!”
“To a stranger!” cried the old man, with a piercing tone of pain.
“Oh, my dear Frogmore, oh, my dear! I would not for the world cross you, and if it is a little favorite—of course I shall take care of him, and love him—try to love him—for your sake: but you must not care for him too much on the other hand,” she said, playfully, though with an effort, lifting up her finger—“to interfere with me—or Duke.”
The old gentleman looked at her with eyes full of pain—“Oh, my poor Mary,” he said, “can you not remember—try and remember—what happened before you went away.”
“I remember very well, my dear,” she said, “only it is strange that you should talk of my going away as if it had been something of the greatest importance. To hear you speak one would think I had deserted you—run away from you—left you alone for years.”
“Dr. Marsden,” said Lord Frogmore. He repeated the call impatiently in another minute, “Dr. Marsden!”
“Do you want to speak to Dr. Marsden? I am sure he will be here directly. Oh, here he is,” said Mary, looking round with a little surprise. “He must have been quite close by.”
“Dr. Marsden,” cried Frogmore, with a gasp for breath, “is this how it is always to be?”