"Not always," he replied, and that was all. "You seemed to get on unusually well with that friend of Christian Montmorris's, Roma," said Gertrude, when they were shut up together in the carriage on their way home. Her tone was half satisfied and inquisitive: she evidently had not made up her mind if her sister-in-law should be scolded or not. Roma had been debating how much of her conversation with Mr Thurston it would be well to retail to Mrs Eyrecourt, but something in Gertrude's remark jarred upon her, and she instantly resolved to tell her nothing. "Did I?" she said, indifferently. "Well, there was no one else to get on with; and he had just come from India, so he was rather more amusing than the Montmorrises." "Is he going back again immediately?" asked Mrs Eyrecourt, but she never waited for the answer. A new idea struck her. "Oh, by-the-bye, Roma," she exclaimed. "Isn't it odd--just when we were talking about the Halswood Chancellors this morning--old Mr Montmorris tells me the second son, that is to say rather, the second _grandson_, died last year. Isn't it odd we never heard of it? He seems to have a very high opinion of the new head of the family--Herbert Chancellor; he says Halswood will be a very different place now. The income has increased amazingly; old Uncle Chancellor spent so little; and Herbert Chancellor's wife has a large fortune too, he tells me. Fancy, Roma, their eldest child, a girl, is eighteen. Wouldn't she be nice for Beauchamp?" "Very," replied Roma, satirically. "She's got money--that's all that needs to be considered." "You shouldn't speak so, Roma. As if _I_ would ever put money before other things--goodness and suitableness and all that," said Gertrude, in an injured tone. "You're in one of your queer humours to-night, I see. But I daresay you're very tired, poor child! and it was very good-natured of you to come to the Montmorrises' with me." VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER SIX. GERALD'S HOME-COMING. Fairer than stars were the roses, Faint was the fragrance and rare; Not any flower in the garden Could with those roses compare. ***** But another had taken delight In colour and perfume rare. And another hand had gathered My roses beyond compare. _Wild Roses_.