“Yes, it came to an end when Fanny took ill. You had really nothing to do with it, you know. According to all accounts, Stacy Calverleigh, for the past fortnight, has being laying determined siege to a rich widow—a far more desirable conquest than Fanny, I assure you! I have not myself had the felicity of meeting the lady, but I understand that she is much inclined to succumb to his attractions.”

He was so much surprised that his anger was instantly quenched. He exclaimed: “You don’t mean it! Is it indeed so? Well, upon my word! Nothing could be better! A widow, you say? Well! They say he is all to pieces, you know—quite gutted! And Danescourt falling to ruin! I was never more shocked in my life! Fanny is to be congratulated!”

“Very true, but I fear you won’t be able to do so. She is still far from well. In fact, I think it would be wiser if she doesn’t come downstairs today—in case she should still be infectious.”

Since James, as she knew well, shared Selina’s dread of contracting any infectious complaint, he agreed hastily that it would be wisest for Fanny to remain in her room. He said that there was now no need for him to see her: a remark hardly calculated to endear him to his sister. He continued for several minutes to animadvert on Stacy Calverleigh’s character; but suddenly he fell silent, and the pleased expression vanished from his face. He began to fidget about the room, twice began to say something, an apparently thought better of it, and finally came to a halt in front of Abby’s chair, and said portentously; “Abby! There is something I must say to you!”

She could guess what was coming, but she merely raised her brows enquiringly.

“Something or more importance than Fanny’s frippery affair—of far graver importance! It has upset me very much. It made me bilious for two days. You must know that I have always been subject to stomach disorders, and nothing brings on one of my attacks more surely than shock! I suffered a severe shock, sister, when it came to my knowledge that not only was young Calverleigh in Bath, but also his uncle! I had not thought it to have been possible!”

“Why not?” asked Abby.

He seemed to find it difficult to answer this, for after glaring down at her for a moment, he ejaculated, somewhat lamely: “Here! In Bath! I had supposed him to be in India!”

“Well, so he was, but he has now returned to England. I believe it is quite customary for people to do so.”

“Customary! Ay, for some people! And here—here of all unlucky places! That I might be obliged actually to meet the fellow—!”

“Don’t let it distress you!” she said, in a deceptively kind voice. “I don’t wish to seem unfeeling, but you cannot be laid up with a bilious-attack in this house! I hope, since there is no likelihood of your meeting Miles Calverleigh, that that trial at least may be spared us. It so happens that he is not in Bath.”

“He is not?” he said eagerly. “Then where is he?”

“I have no notion where he may be,” she responded coldly.

He regarded her out of narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Does he mean to return?”

“Oh, I hope so!” she said, smiling in a way which should have warned him of danger.

“You hope so! Then it is true, is it? Not only has the fellow had the effrontery to make you the object of his gallantry, but you have encouraged him to do so! You have not outgrown that—unsteadiness of character, which my father was used to fear would one day lead you into serious imprudence. You still have what Cornelia has always believed to be a love of singularity. You still—”

“Do you know, James, I can’t but believe that you would be happier if you paid rather less heed to the reports Mrs Ruscombe so regularly sends to Cornelia?” she interrupted. “If you lived here, you would pay none at all!”

He reddened. “If you tell me that there is no truth in the intelligence she thought it her duty to send Cornelia, I must naturally accept your word.”

“The only thing I have to tell you is what I have already told you: you are wasting your time! I am not a child, and what I do is my own concern! Now, if you please, let us discuss some other subject before we come to dagger-drawing!”

She spoke quite quietly, but she was by this time very angry. He seemed to realize it, for when he had taken another turn about the room he said, in a more moderate tone: “I do not mean to set up your back. Recollect that although I have no authority over you I am your brother! What you do cannot but be of concern to me. I beg you will tell me—have you indeed a partiality for this man?”

She looked at him without speaking, but it was Miles Calverleigh’s face she saw, not his. A smile crept into her eyes; she turned them away from her brother, and sat looking into the fire. “Oh, yes!” she said softly.

He groaned. “And he? Has he had the imp—has he made you an offer?” She nodded, and again he groaned. “My poor girl! I do most sincerely pity you! Rest assured that not one word of what you have divulged to me shall ever pass my lips! You cannot marry Calverleigh. Good God, one would have thought that at your age—” He broke off, and said, with what was meant for an indulgent smile: “Well, well, you are not so old, after all, and one may fancy oneself in love at any age, eh? But you are old enough to reflect before you abandon yourself to folly—to an act of such madness as must ruin your life! You must allow me to speak plainly to you, little though I may relish the task. I own that I look upon it with repulsion: indeed, I never thought to be obliged to discuss such matters with any of my sisters! Calverleigh is a ne’er-do-well. His reputation—”

“Very bad, wasn’t it?” she agreed.

“Yes, my dear sister, it was! I shall not sully your ears with the details of his career—Abigail! Do you find it a matter for laughter?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said, choking on a giggle. “It is most uncivil to laugh in a person’s face, but I couldn’t help but do so! I suddenly thought how much Miles Calverleigh would enjoy hearing you talk such fustian, and wondered what he would say! Though I have a very good notion of that! It would certainly be outrageous, so perhaps it is as well that he isn’t here, for he would shock you very much—quite enough to make you bilious, I daresay! Don’t s-sully my ears any more, James! Remember that I came out of leading-strings a long time ago! I find that I don’t care a straw for his reputation.”

“You are hysterical!” he exclaimed. “You do not know what you are saying! He is a man without principles, without regard for any of the virtues you have been taught to revere!”

“Oh, quite without regard for them!” she said cordially. “He hasn’t any regard for family obligations either, and I am fast coming to the conclusion that he is perfectly right.”

He said repressively: “I make all allowance for the freakish things you delight in saying, but such wild, unthinking talk as this is very unbecoming in you. When you say that you don’t care a straw for Calverleigh’s reputation, you don’t understand what you arc saying, for you know nothing about it. It would be shocking if you did.”

“Well, you don’t know anything about it either, do you?” she said. “You can’t have known very much before he was sent to India, for you are younger than he is, and he was only twenty at that time; and you can know nothing at all about him from that date onward.”

He found himself obliged to take another turn about the room, his hands clasped behind his back, and his fingers working convulsively. Coming to a halt again, he drew an audible breath, and said: “Abby! There are circumstances which render any alliance between a Wendover and a Calverleigh impossible-unthinkable! I cannot say more: you must believe me when I tell you that it so!”

“There is no need for you to say more,” she replied, with composure. “I know what happened—twenty years ago!”

“What?”He looked, for a moment, horrified, and then incredulous. “You cannot know!”

“Oh, yes! He eloped with Celia, didn’t he? But it was all hushed up, after the manner of her family and ours, and she married Rowland after all.”

“Who told you this?” he demanded, thunderstruck.

“Why, he did, of course—Miles Calverleigh!”

His jaw dropped. He seemed to find it difficult to speak, and stuttered: “C-Calverleigh t-told you? C-Calverleigh himself? Good God!” Words failed him. While she watched him in some amusement, he pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his brow. Regaining a measure of control over his emotions, he said: “It is worse than I had thought it possible it could be! He must be dead to shame! Lost to every vestige of propriety!”

“I shouldn’t think he ever had a vestige of propriety to lose, she said reflectively. “As for shame, I don’t know, but he is not ashamed of running off with Celia. I see little reason why he should be. It was imprudent—and, of course, improper—but he was very young, and when her father forced Celia to become engaged to Rowland, I daresay it seemed to him to be the only thing to be done. I don’t blame him. Those whom I do blame, and from the bottom of my heart despise, are Papa, and Morval, and Rowland!”

He looked fixedly at her, and, lowering his voice, said, in apocalyptic accents: “You do not know all! They were not overtaken until the following day!”

She tried not to laugh, but his awful aspect was too much for her. Quite appalled by such depravity, he said sharply: “Upon my soul! I begin to think you are well matched, you and that scoundrel!

“Yes, James: I begin to think so too!” she agreed, between irrepressible outbreaks of laughter.