“Yes. I fancied perhaps you did not care to see it, as you never asked me,” said Raby, producing the precious paper from her dress, where she kept it like a sort of talisman.
“How could you think that?” said Scarfe reproachfully, who had quite forgotten to ask to see it.
He took the paper and glanced down it.
“Hullo!” said he, starting as Jeffreys had done. “Captain Forrester! I wonder if that’s poor young Forrester’s father?”
“Who is poor young Forrester?” inquired Raby.
Scarfe read the paper to the end, and then looked up in well-simulated confusion.
“Poor young Forrester? Oh—well, I dare say Jeffreys could tell you about him. The fact is, Miss Atherton, if I am not allowed to talk of people behind their backs it is impossible for me to tell you the story of poor young Forrester.”
“Then,” said Raby, flushing, as she folded up the paper, “I’ve no desire to hear it.”
Scarfe could see he had gone too far.
“I have offended you,” said he, “but really I came upon the name so unexpectedly that—”