"You don't know what sort of a place it is!" he insisted.
"I cannot know, I suppose, without going."
"Suppose you stay here," said Mr. Esthwaite; "and we'll send for anybody in the world you please! to make you comfortable. Seriously, we want good people in this colony; we have got a supply of all other sorts, but those are in a deficient minority."
"In that case, I think everybody that stays here is bound to supply one."
"See here—who is that gentleman that is so fortunate as to be expecting you? what is his name?"
"Mr. Esthwaite! for shame!" said his wife. "I think you are a very presuming cousin."
Mr. Esthwaite knew quite well that he was, but he smiled to himself with satisfaction to see the answer his question had called up into Eleanor's cheeks. The rich dye of crimson was pretty to behold; her words were delayed long enough to mark either difficulty of speaking or displeasure at the necessity for it. Mr. Esthwaite did not care which it was. At last Eleanor answered, with calm distinctness though without facing him.
"Do you not know the name?"
"I—I believe Mrs. Caxton must have mentioned it in one of her letters.
She ought, and I think she did."
An impatient throb of displeasure passed through Eleanor's veins. It did not appear. She said composedly, "The name is Rhys—it is a Welsh name—spelled R, h, y, s."