Miss Wenlock had listened in tremulous sympathy, nodding from time to time. Constance sat silent and rather pale—looting down. But her mind was angry. She said to herself that nobody ought to attack absent persons who can’t defend themselves,—at least so violently. And as Mrs. Mulholland seemed to wait for some remark from her, she said at last, with a touch of impatience: “I don’t think Mr. Radowitz minds much. He came to us—to my uncle’s—to play last night. He was as gay as possible.” “Radowitz would make jokes with the hangman!” said Mrs. Mulholland. “Ah, well, I think you know Douglas Falloden”—the tone was just lightly touched with significance—“and if you can lecture him—do!” Then she abruptly changed her subject: “I suppose you have scarcely yet made acquaintance with your two aunts who live quite close to the Fallodens in Yorkshire?” Constance looked up in astonishment. “Do you know them?” “Oh, quite well!” The strong wrinkled face flashed into laughter. But suddenly the speaker checked herself, and laid a worn hand gently on Constance’s knee—“You won’t mind if I tell you things?—you won’t think me an impertinent old woman? I knew your father”—was there just an imperceptible pause on the words?—“when he was quite a boy; and my people were small squires under the shelter of the Risboroughs before your father sold the property and settled abroad. I was brought up with all your people—your Aunt Marcia, and your Aunt Winifred, and all the rest of them. I saw your mother once in Rome—and loved her, like everybody else. But—as probably you know—your Aunt Winifred—who was keeping house for your father—gathered up her silly skirts, and departed when your father announced his engagement. Then she and your Aunt Marcia settled together in an old prim Georgian house, about five miles from the Fallodens; and there they have been ever since. And now they are tremendously excited about you!” “About me?” said Constance, astonished. “I don’t know them. They never write to me. They never wrote to father!” Mrs. Mulholland smiled. “All the same you will have a letter from them soon. And of course you remember your father’s married sister, Lady Langmoor?” “No, I never even saw her. But she did sometimes write to father.” “Yes, she was not quite such a fool as the others. Well, she will certainly descend on you. She’ll want you for some balls—for a drawing-room—and that kind of thing. I warn you!” The girl’s face showed her restive. “Why should she want me?—when she never wanted me before—or any of us?”