“Then how have you learned all the things you know?” he asked.

“That was not difficult.  I do not know much,” she said, gently, “and Sarah taught me in the beginning, and then I went to convents whenever we were in towns, and dear papa was so kind and generous always; no matter how hard up he was he always got the best masters available for me—­and for Clementine.  Sarah is much older, and even Clementine five years.”

“I wonder what on earth you will think of it—­England, I mean?” He was deeply interested.

“I am sure I shall love it.  We have always spoken of it as home, you know.  And papa has often described my grandfather’s houses.  Both my grandfathers had beautiful houses, it seems, and he says, now that I am rich and cannot ever be a trouble to them, the family might be pleased to see me.”

She spoke quite simply.  There never was room for bitterness or irony in her tender heart.  And Hector looked down upon her, a sort of worship in his eyes.

“Papa’s father is dead long ago; it is his brother who owns Beechleigh now,” she continued—­“Sir Patrick Fitzgerald.  They are Irish, of course, but the place is in Cambridgeshire, because it came from his grandmother.”

“Yes, I know the old boy,” said Hector.  “I see him at the turf—­a fiery, vile-tempered, thin, old bird, about sixty.”

“That sounds like him,” said Theodora.

“And so you are going to make all these relations’ acquaintance.  What an experience it will be, won’t it?” His voice was full of sympathy.  “But you will stay in London.  They are all there now, I suppose?”

“My Grandfather Borringdon, my mother’s father, never goes there, I believe; he is very old and delicate, we have heard.  But I have written to him—­papa wished me to do so; for myself I do not care, because I think he was unkind to my mother, and I shall not like him.  It was cruel never to speak to her again—­wasn’t it?—­just because she married papa, whom she loved very much—­papa, who is so handsome that he could never have really been a husband, could he?”

Then she blushed deeply, realizing what she had said.

And the quaintness of it caused Hector to smile while he felt its pathos.

How could they all have sacrificed this beautiful young life between them!  And he slashed off a tall green weed with his stick when he thought of Josiah Brown—­his short, stumpy, plebeian figure and bald, shiny head, his common voice, and his pompousness—­Josiah Brown, who had now the ordering of her comings and goings, who paid for her clothes and gave her those great pearls—­who might touch her and kiss her—­might clasp and caress her—­might hold her in his arms, his very own, any moment of the day—­or night!  Ah, God! that last thought was impossible—­unbearable.

And for one second Hector’s eyes looked murderous as they glared into the distance—­and Theodora glanced up timidly, and asked, in a sympathetic voice:  What was it?  What ailed him?