“Argument upon that point is unnecessary,” said Macbean, growing serious. “I only emphasise the fact that a foreign family in England is at a far greater disadvantage than an English family on the Continent. The former is held in suspicion or shunned, while the latter is fêted and welcomed. Ah, my dear uncle, society, with all its sins and vices, is full of amazing prejudices.”
“But of course there is another side to the question of the Morinis,” his uncle said. “It got abroad last year that Morini held some very high position in Rome. Young Barton, the schoolmaster at Kilworth, went with one of Lunn’s tours to Italy, and when he came back he told an extraordinary story of how the party were being shown the outside of one of the public offices when a gentleman descended from a carriage which drove into the courtyard, and as he entered the sentries saluted. To his surprise he recognised him as Mr Morini, and on inquiry understood from one of the doorkeepers that he was His Excellency the Minister of War. Of course nobody believed him. But I’ve looked in ‘Whitaker,’ and, strangely enough, it gives Signor Camillo Morini as Minister of War!”
“Ah, my dear uncle,” laughed Macbean, “of course regard it as entirely confidential, but what Barton discovered is the truth. Signor Morini is a member of the Italian Cabinet, and one of the most prominent personages in Italy—and they actually believe him here to be an adventurer!” he laughed. “But,” he added, “you haven’t told me about Dubard.”
“I know practically nothing, except that he stayed at Orton for a month last summer, and was very attentive to Mary. And as he’s here again this season, the gossips say they are engaged. He is a rich man, I hear, with estates in the Pyrenees.”
George Macbean’s lip curled slightly, and he gave vent to a distinct sniff of dissatisfaction. He had recognised him as they had passed on the highroad, and yet, until his uncle had mentioned the name of Dubard, he had been puzzled as to the man’s actual identity.
To him, the fact that the Frenchman was guest at Orton, and engaged to the Minister’s daughter, was utterly staggering. Yet rumour did not say there was really an engagement—or at least it had not been formally announced.
The young man relit his pipe and smoked on in silence, his brows knit, his mind full of a certain scene of the past—a scene conjured up in his memory by sight of that pale, narrow face with the brown moustache—a scene that caused his hands to clench themselves and his teeth to close together firmly.
“Do tell me what you know about the Frenchman,” urged the rector.
“No, thank you, my dear uncle,” responded the other. “I know too well these gossiping villages, and I hold the law of slander in too great a dread. The count is all right,” he laughed. “A very nice fellow, you said.”
His uncle saw that he had no intention of saying a word against the visitor at Orton, and yet at the same time it was apparent that he held him in distinct mistrust. Yet, after all, reflected the rector, it was curious that George had not recognised him at once.