“I never read them. For Heaven’s sake, speak, divulge, I’m ready for anything!” “Your great-uncle is dead—died last month. Before he went he confessed a heavy sin that had lain for years on his soul, poor dear creature. That great lanky son of his, about whom, as you know, I always had a nasty feeling, as if he were not altogether quite right, as if somehow he was not one of us. This now proves to have been a quite prophetic instinct, he turns out to be—ahem—illegitimate, and you, you, Humphrey, are the heir.” “I say! It’s beastly hard lines on Tom!” Strange was quite as staggered with the news, as any other younger son in his condition would have been. It vibrated through and through him, but as one cannot clothe thunder in harmonies any more than one can a tumultuous muddle of sensations in speech in the presence of a woman inclined to gush and stoutness, he swallowed his muddle and was flippant. “Humphrey!” said Lady Mary with dignity, wondering a little if Humphrey himself were quite right. “This minute you have ten thousand a year, and you, my nephew, are Sir Humphrey Strange.” “Am I? You’ll be astonished to hear I don’t feel a bit like it, I feel exactly as I did before. Is there any difference to the naked eye, if so, do you mind telling me?” Lady Mary stirred uneasily and crossed her hands. “Dear Humphrey!” she cried at last, with a soft wailing bleat, “I confess I did expect some show of proper feeling from you on this occasion. It is a shock to me to see you in your present frame of mind, it seems like flying in the face of Providence, and may end in bringing down a judgment on your head.” Lady Mary sighed and continued, lowering her voice to a coo, “When I heard the news, Humphrey, I went down on my knees and prayed that my poor sinful uncle might be forgiven for foisting that counterfeit young man off on our family, and that you, my nephew, might face your responsibilities with a seriousness befitting the occasion. My dear, if you knew what it costs me to kneel, now that I have grown a little stout, you might perhaps appreciate this act.” Humphrey grinned. “Aunt Moll, my feelings are always too deep for expression, it would upset you for a month if I were to give you the merest glimpse of the emotions that are ravaging me this minute. These inward upheavals are frightfully wasting, your acts of prayer and thanksgiving are a fool to them—There doesn’t happen to be any tea going, does there?” “Tea! Is it five o’clock? What can have happened? Pray ring. The misery I have to endure with servants! I wonder my hair isn’t even greyer than it is, and my poor face more worn.” “Your hair is as brown as a nut, and there isn’t a crease in your dear, soft young face. What was wrong with you when I came in, the corners of your mouth were turned the wrong way?” Lady Mary reflected as she made his tea. “Ah, it was Gwen, she has thrown aside another most unexceptionable match, the third in three months.” “Gwen, what?”