Horace did not like this way of putting the matter at all; in the first place, it was an insult to Edith, and in the second place it was an insult to his own intelligence. He had thought the thing out so often, and had acted so entirely as a free agent; and yet the more emphasis he laid on this fact, the more plainly he saw the pleasant, unconvinced smile upon his sister’s face; besides, it wasn’t the point of the discussion; they seemed strangely incapable of reaching the point of the discussion. “I am sure when you see Edith,” he said at last, “you will feel that I have made a most desirable choice.” He tried to put it as baldly as possible, for he did not wish Etta to think he had been swayed by glamour. “Walton!” said his sister slowly: “who are the Waltons? Has the yellow silk skein fallen at your feet, Horace?” “I don’t know that they are anybody in particular,” said Horace, vaguely uncomfortable; “she’s an orphan, you know, and Lady Walton, her aunt, is an extremely clever, amusing woman. Edith has not gone in for Society much, she’s so fond of travel, and her aunt’s rather an invalid, so I imagine they have always lived extremely quietly.” “I can’t remember,” said Etta, “whether it was biscuits or soap the Lindleys told me; perhaps it was soap.” “What was soap?” said Horace, now thoroughly irritated. “What the man Walton, you know, was knighted for,” said his sister, calmly stitching at a wild rose. “Is she a lady by birth?” “The question did not arise,” said Horace rather grimly, “and if such questions do not arise, the references are usually satisfactory.” “Usually,” agreed his sister, “but not always, Horace.” “You speak in a very mysterious way, my dear. May I ask if you have a secret up your sleeve--what do they call those things in the ‘Family Herald’?--‘an ugly secret.’ Have you discovered that Lady Walton’s name was Smith?” “I don’t know what her name was,” said Miss Lestrange, and for a moment she pushed the screen away from her. “The whole family seem slightly obscure, but I supposed Miss Walton’s aunt could hardly be a person of much discrimination (I am sure I can be revealing no secret to you, my dear Horace, as you must know all about the thing already)--but how could any one who was a lady allow her niece to compromise herself quite as madly on the eve of her first London season? People of our sort don’t do that kind of thing.” “Pray explain yourself, Etta,” said Horace, getting up and standing in front of the mantelpiece, where he could look down on his sister. “I know nothing of what you say. Perhaps you have heard some malicious or stupid gossip which it is your duty to tell me, and mine to contradict.”