“Lionel Montella has no right to marry a shicksa,[[3]] even if she does belong to the aristocracy,” was Mrs. Emanuel’s stricture. “If you are not good enough for him, why doesn’t he marry a Rothschild? It must be a terrible disappointment to his father, especially after the trouble he has had with Ferdinand.”
[3]. Gentile.
“Who is Ferdinand?” asked Raie, her cheeks still burning.
“Ferdinand Montella, of course. Sir Julian’s son by his first wife, who was a Miss Klonsberg of Birkenhead, and second cousin of your poor papa’s step-brother’s wife. Do you mean to say, child, that you’ve lived with the Montellas all this time without ever hearing of Ferdinand, or that I never told you about him? It seems almost incredible.”
Raie became interested.
“I have never heard the name until you mentioned it just now,” she replied. “Tell me all about him, please.”
Mrs. Emanuel was fond of relating the personal history of anyone with whom she happened to be acquainted.
“Ferdinand is the skeleton in the Montellas’ cupboard,” she began, giving her daughter time to digest the statement. “His mother died when he was born, and until his father married again he was brought up by a relation of the Selim Montellas. He was expelled from Eton, and ran away from boarding-school, and was the sort of little monster who would never be able to abstain from wickedness outside a reformatory. When he was about eighteen, he did something shady—I don’t quite know what it was, for the matter was hushed up, but I believe he tried to embezzle, or something of the sort. Anyway, Sir Julian disinherited him, cut him out of his will, and sent him off to Australia with just enough money to pay his passage. Since then, the name of Ferdinand has been tabooed by the Montella family, which, I suppose, accounts for your ignorance of the matter.”
Raie’s eyes were wide open.
“Do they never hear from him?” she asked.