‘Yes, they all do. It is a country habit. He “doctors” them, so he is “the doctor;” but he practises as a surgeon.’ ‘Is he a friend of yours, then?’ ‘I have known him intimately for many years.’ ‘Otho says that some one whom he called “Gilbert Langstroth” is his greatest friend. Is he any relation of this Mr. Langstroth?’ ‘Brother.’ ‘Indeed! But Otho seemed not to know Dr. Langstroth very well.’ ‘They are not devoted to each other.’ ‘Have they quarrelled?’ It could hardly be that these questions of Eleanor’s, put in all innocence and good faith, were agreeable to Magdalen. Perhaps, when she asked Otho to bring his sister soon, she had foreseen some such catechism. Perhaps she had reflected that the old facts of her engagement to Michael and its rupture, and the reasons assigned for it, must surely, sooner or later, come to Eleanor Askam’s ears, since they were public property, and it was not the fashion in Bradstane to hide any treasure, however minute, of fact or fiction, gossip or scandal, which had once gained credence in the public mind. Why not, she may have reflected, let Eleanor hear the story from herself, and so at any rate gain that first hearing which is supposed to go such a long way towards deciding the final verdict? She knew quite well that, along with the simple account of her own engagement to Michael, and of its having been broken off, Eleanor would likewise hear that she, Magdalen, had jilted Michael, hoping to be married by Otho Askam. That, whether true or not, was what was said, and Magdalen knew it as well as if she had heard it herself. She knew, too, that women had laughed at her, and did laugh at her yet, because she had thrown Michael over, they said, and not secured Otho. People did not say those things to her, of course, but she knew that they were said, and that they would be said to Eleanor. Grievous though the questions of the latter might appear to her, therefore, it might have been still more grievous to know that Eleanor was seated in other drawing-rooms, hearing other versions of the story. ‘Oh, it is a long tale, rather,’ said she; and she related correctly enough the history of the two brothers, not mentioning her own relations to Michael, but watching Eleanor with interest. She saw how the girl’s eyes gradually kindled, and her lips parted, as she heard, and seemed almost to foresee the end of the tale. She leaned forward eagerly as Magdalen wound up with the story of the will and its directions, and how Michael had received the blow. ‘Yes?’ said Eleanor. ‘When he found that his father’s house was all that belonged to him, the first thing he did was to turn Gilbert out of it, calling him traitor, and saying he had lost his brother. He drove him out that instant, you know, on the spot.’