"Not in the least odd!" reply I, brusquely. "Why should he? He knew that I was not aware of your existence, and that therefore you would not be a very interesting subject to me; no doubt"—(smiling a little)—"I shall hear all about you from him now."
He is silent.
"And do you live here at this abbey"—(pointing to the card I still hold in my hand)—"all by yourself?"
"Do you mean without a wife?" he asks, with a half-sneering smile. "Yes—I have that misfortune."
"I was not thinking of a wife," say I, rather angrily. "It never occurred to me that you could have one! you are too young—a great deal too young!"
"Too young, am I? At what age, then, may one be supposed to deserve that blessing? forty? fifty? sixty?"
I feel rather offended, but cannot exactly grasp in my own mind the ground of offense.
"I meant, of course, had you any father? any mother?"
"Neither. I am that most affecting spectacle—an orphan-boy."
"You have no brothers and sisters, I am sure," say I, confidently.