‘Yes, she is beautiful, Mr. Monson,’ she answered sadly, ‘too beautiful indeed. Her face has proved a fatal gift to her. What madness!’ she exclaimed, whispering her words almost. ‘And never was there a more devoted husband than Wilfrid. And her baby—the little lamb! Oh, how could she do it! how could she do it!’
‘With whom has the child been placed?’ said I.
‘With a cousin—Mrs. Trevor.’
‘Oh, I know, a dear good creature; the bairn will be in excellent hands.’
‘Sir Wilfrid was too affectionate, Mr. Monson. You know,’ she continued, looking at me sideways, her face very grave, ‘if you have ceased to love or to like a person, your aversion will grow in proportion as he grows fond of you. It is not true, Mr. Monson, that love begets love. No; if it were true, my sister would be the happiest of women.’
‘Have you met Colonel Hope-Kennedy?’
‘Oh yes, often and often. He was a very constant visitor at Sherburne Abbey.’
‘Pretty good-looking?’
‘Tall, very gentlemanly, not by any means handsome to my taste, but I have no doubt many women would think him so.’
‘The name is familiar to me, but I never met the man. Did he live in the North?’