’I’m sure I don’t know—­except that she’d get away from Camberwell.  Nancy hates it.’

’Who knows?  I may be able to be of use to her.  But, you say she is such a grave and learned young lady?  I am afraid we should bore each other.’

To this, Horace could venture only an uncertain reply.  He had not much hope of mutual understanding between his sister and Mrs. Damerel.

At half-past five he was home again, and there followed a cheerless evening.  Nancy was in her own room until nine o’clock.  She came down for supper, but had no appetite; her eyes showed redness from weeping; Horace could say nothing for her comfort.  After the meal, they went up together to the drawing-room, and sat unoccupied.

‘If we lose father,’ said Nancy, in a dull voice very unlike her ordinary tones, ’we shall have not a single relative left, that is anything to us.’

Her brother kept silence.

‘Has Mrs. Damerel,’ she continued, ’ever said anything to you about mother’s family?’

After hesitation, Horace answered, ‘Yes,’ and his countenance showed that the affirmative had special meaning.  Nancy waited with an inquiring look.

‘I haven’t told you,’ he added, ’because—­we have had other things to think about.  But Mrs. Damerel is mother’s sister, our aunt.’

‘How long have you known that?’

‘She told me at Scarborough.’

‘But why didn’t she tell you so at first?’

’That’s what I can’t understand.  She says she was afraid I might mention it; but I don’t believe that’s the real reason.’

Nancy’s questioning elicited all that was to be learnt from her brother, little more than she had heard already; the same story of a disagreement between Mrs. Damerel and their father, of long absences from England, and a revival of interest in her relatives, following upon Mrs. Damerel’s widowhood.

’She would be glad to see you, if you liked.  But I doubt whether you would get on very well.’

‘Why?’

’She doesn’t care about the same things that you do.  She’s a woman of society, you know.’

‘But if she’s mother’s sister.  Yes, I should like to know her.’  Nancy spoke with increasing earnestness.  ’It makes everything quite different.  I must see her.’

’Well, as I said, she’s quite willing.  But you remember that I’m supposed not to have spoken about her at all.  I should have to get her to send you a message, or something of that kind.  Of course, we have often talked about you.’

‘I can’t form an idea of her,’ said Nancy impatiently.  ’Is she good?  Is she really kind?  Couldn’t you get her portrait to show me?’

’I should be afraid to ask, unless she had given me leave to speak to you.’

‘She really lives in good society?’

’Haven’t I told you the sort of people she knows?  She must be very well off; there can’t be a doubt of it.’

I don’t care so much about that,’ said Nancy in a brooding voice.  ’It’s herself,—­whether she’s kind and good and wishes well to us.