‘Only the quiet life of a school in Yorkshire, where I was sent when I was very young, and where I stayed till I was seventeen. But the life seemed bright to me. I had governesses and schoolfellows whom I loved, and green hills and woods that were only less dear than my living friends.’ This paved the way for farther confidences. She spoke of her youth, he of his; of his father and mother, of his sister, the little one buried in the family grave, not that other whose fate he knew not; his college days; things he had spoken of the night before. She stopped him in the middle. ‘Tell me about America,’ she said; ‘I want to know all about America. Some one I loved very much went to America.’ ‘I should have hardly thought your life had been eventful enough for much love,’ said Lucius somewhat coldly. ‘I have not seen the person I speak of since I was seven years old,’ she answered, with a sigh. ‘I think I may trust you; we are friends, are we not?’ ‘Did not your grandfather authorise me to consider myself almost your adopted brother?’ ‘The person I spoke of just now is one whose very name is forbidden here. But that cruelty cannot make me forget him. It only strengthens my memory. He is my father.’ ‘Your father? Yes, I understand; the son whom your grandfather cast off. But not without cause, I suppose?’ ‘Perhaps not,’ answered Lucille, the dark deep eyes filling with tears that were quickly brushed away. ‘He may have been to blame. My grandfather has never told me why they quarrelled. He has only told me in hard cruel words that they learned to hate each other before they learned to forget each other. I was not old enough to know anything except that my father was always kind to me, and always dear to me. I did not see him very much. He was out a great deal, out late at night, and I was alone with an old servant in my grandfather’s house in Bond-street, where we had lived ever since I could remember, though I was not born there. We had a dark little parlour behind the shop, which went back a long way, and was crowded like the room on the other side of the hall. The days used to seem very long and dull, so little sunshine, so little air. But everything grew bright when papa came in for an hour, and took me on his knee, and told me long wild stories, German stories, I believe, yet half his own invention; stories of kelpies and lurleys and haunted castles, of a world that was peopled with fairies, where every leaf and every flower had its sprite. But I shall tire you with all this talk,’ she said, checking herself suddenly; ‘and perhaps your patients are waiting for you.’ ‘They must wait a few minutes longer. Tire me? no, I am deeply interested in all you tell me. Pray go on. Those were your happy hours which your father spent at home.’