“His family is one of the oldest in England,” said Miss Lestrange impressively. “Well, he’s young enough,” observed the imperturbable beauty. She had a slight American intonation which Miss Lestrange found strangely aggravating; it annoyed her almost beyond the power of speech. “I have always taken the greatest interest in my nephew’s concerns,” she continued. “I have brought him up from his babyhood. I stand to him in the place of his parents.” “And yet I had a very sensible letter from his father the other day,” interrupted Anastasia, and she laughed a low velvety laugh of pure pleasure (which Miss Lestrange promptly mistook for vulgar impertinence). “I think it is the most sensible letter I ever had, and I answered it. I guess he hasn’t sent you here, has he?” “My brother married regrettably a second time,” said Miss Lestrange coldly, “a woman of no family connections, singularly unsuited to bring up a delicate and sensitive child; even her husband has never pressed the point.” “You don’t say,” observed Anastasia, narrowly regarding her exquisite fingers. “Poor disconnected lady, I feel quite sorry for her!” “On the contrary,” replied Miss Lestrange, “she has, I think, been very fortunate; a marriage of that kind for a girl in Edith Walton’s position, and at her age--she was thirty at the time--does not happen every day over here.” Anastasia suddenly woke up for the first time; she opened her great eyes wide and looked at Miss Lestrange. It was a look so vital, so amazingly keen, staring out of the soft, mysterious, velvety dullness, that Miss Lestrange jumped. Then Anastasia sank back into her usual attitude of inspired indolence. “What did you say her name was?” she asked languidly. “Haddlestone? I knew some people called that once--way out West.” “No, Walton,” repeated Miss Lestrange distinctly; “but it really hardly matters what her name is, I think, to the subject under discussion.” “Were you discussing anything?” Anastasia asked calmly. “I wasn’t. I am merely wasting my time. However, I won’t waste any more of it. What do you want?” and her voice suddenly turned brisk and business-like. “I want you,” said Miss Lestrange with a sudden quiver of pathetic middle-aged passion, “to let my boy go. You are a beautiful woman; what does one boy more or less matter to you--a practically penniless boy, too? Send him about his business, like a--like a kind-hearted woman.” “How do you know I am a kind-hearted woman?” Anastasia asked curiously. “Because,” said Miss Lestrange, rising to her feet, “you have all the advantages on your side; you can easily afford to be.”