He went to her, wondering as much at her audacity as her pettishness.  When he reached her, ‘Sir George,’ she said, retaining her seat and looking gravely at him, while he stood before her like a boy undergoing correction, ’you have twice insulted me—­once in Oxford when, believing Mr. Dunborough’s hurt lay at my door, I was doing what I could to repair it; and again to-day.  If you wish to see more of me, you must refrain from doing so a third time.  You know, a third time—­you know what a third time does.  And more—­one moment, if you please.  I must ask you to treat me differently.  I make no claim to be a gentlewoman, but my condition is altered.  A relation has left me a—­a fortune, and when I met you here last night I was on my way to Bath to claim it.’

Sir George passed from the surprise into which the first part of this speech had thrown him, to surprise still greater.  At last, ’I am vastly glad to hear it,’ he said.  ’For most of us it is easier to drop a fortune than to find one.’

‘Is it?’ she said, and laughed musically, Then, moving her skirt to show him that he might sit down, ’Well, I suppose it is.  You have no experience of that, I hope, sir?’

He nodded.

‘The gaming-table?’ she said.

‘Not this time,’ he answered, wondering why he told her.  ’I had a grandfather, who made a will.  He had a fancy to wrap up a bombshell in the will.  Now—­the shell has burst.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said; and was silent a moment.  At length, ’Does it make—­any great difference to you?’ she asked naively.

Sir George looked at her as if he were studying her appearance.  Then, ‘Yes, child, it does,’ he said.

She hesitated, but seemed to make up her mind.  ’I have never asked you where you live,’ she said softly; ‘have you no house in the country?’

He suppressed something between an oath and a groan.  ‘Yes,’ he said, ’I have a house.’

‘What do you call it?’

‘Estcombe Hall.  It is in Wiltshire, not far from here.’

She looked at her fan, and idly flapped it open, and again closed it in the air.  ‘Is it a fine place?’ she said carelessly.

‘I suppose so,’ he answered, wincing.

‘With trees, and gardens, and woods?’

‘Yes.’

‘And water?’

‘Yes.  There is a river.’

‘You used to fish in it as a boy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Estcombe! it is a pretty name.  And shall you lose it?’

But that was too much for Soane’s equanimity.  ‘Oh, d—­n the girl!’ he cried, rising abruptly, but sitting down again.  Then, as she recoiled, in anger real or affected, ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said formally.  ’But—­it is not the custom to ask so many questions upon private matters.’

‘Really, Sir George?’ she said, receiving the information gravely, and raising her eyebrows.  ‘Then Estcombe is your Mr. Dunborough, is it?’

‘If you will,’ he said, almost sullenly.