"Oh, they were pretty little concerts," said George Bethune, good-naturedly. "Very pretty little concerts. I don't know why they were stopped. I suppose Maisrie had some fancy about them—my granddaughter Maisrie—"
It was a kind of introduction. The young man, modestly veiling the quick flash of delight in his eyes at this unexpected happiness, respectfully bowed. Maisrie, with her beautiful pale face suffused with unusual colour, made some brief inclination also; then she seemed to retire again from this conversation—though she could not but overhear.
"My name is Harris," the young man said, as though these confidences were all as a matter of course between neighbours. "It isn't a very distinguished name; but one has to take what is given one. It is not of much consequence."
"I am not so sure about that," the older man rejoined, somewhat sententiously. "A good name is a good thing; it is an honour not to be purchased. It may be the only one of your possessions remaining to you; but of that they cannot rob you."
"Oh, of course, of course," Vincent said, quickly, for he perceived the mistake he had made. "An old historic name is certainly something to be proud of. By the way, sir, did your family originally take their name from Bethon on the Sarthe or from Bethune in the Department of Calais?"
"Bethune—Bethune," said the old man, who appeared to be pleased by this question, which spoke of previous enquiries; and then he added, with a lofty air: "The Duc de Sully, Marquis de Rosny, Sovereign Prince of Enrichemont and Boisbel, Grand Master of the Artillery and Marshal of France, was Maximilien de Bethune—Maximilien de Bethune."
"Oh, really," said the young man, who seemed much impressed.
"The name," continued old George Bethune, in the same oracular vein, "was often spelt Beaton and Beton—especially in Scotland—as everybody knows. Whether James, Archbishop of Glasgow, and his nephew David, Archbishop of St. Andrews, had any immediate relationship with France—beyond that David was consecrated Bishop of Mirepoix when he was negotiating the marriage of James V. at the French Court—I cannot at the moment precisely say; but of this there can be no doubt, that from Bethune in the north came the original territorial designation of the family, not from Bethon in the west. Maximilien de Bethune—Bethune in the Department of the Straits of Calais."
"Oh really," the young man said again, quite humbly.
Now by this time it had become manifest that there was to be no thunderstorm at all. There had been a few more of those quivering strokes of yellow fire (that dwelt longer on the retina than in the clouds) accompanied by some distant mutterings and rumblings; and at one point it seemed as if the dreaded shower were coming on; but all passed off gradually and quietly; the sky slowly brightened; a pale sunshine began here and there to touch the greensward and the shivering elms. This young man had no excuse for remaining here; but he seemed to forget; he was so busy talking—and talking in a very pleased and half-excited fashion, with an occasional glance across at the young lady.