"Were you?" (eagerly.) "When?"
"Two years ago; no, three. I was staying in the neighbourhood with some people for fishing. No doubt you know them—the Fitz-Maurices?"
Esther's countenance falls a little. "I—I—have heard of them," she says, uncertainly.
"Why, they must be neighbours of yours."
"They are rather beyond a drive, I think," she replies, doubtfully.
"If you are three miles from Naullan, and they are only four, I don't see how that can be."
She does not answer for a moment, but only furls and unfurls her fan uneasily; then, looking up with a sudden, honest impulse, speaks, colouring up to the eyes the while. "Why should I be ashamed of what there is no reason to be ashamed of? They are within calling distance, and I do know them in a way; that is to say, Lady Fitz-Maurice bows to me whenever she recollects that she knows me; but, you see, they are great people, and we are small ones."
He looks thoroughly annoyed. The idea that the woman of his choice is by her own confession not exactly on his own level, grates upon his pride.
"Nonsense!" he says, brusquely, "one gentleman is as good as another, all the world over; and it must be the same with ladies."
"St. John, you are wanted to make up a rubber," interrupts Constance, sweeping up to them, resplendent but severe, in green satin and seaweed, like a nineteenth century Nereid, if such an anachronism could exist.