“O, never mind him. There is no use ever in wondering what men are about,” said unsympathising Kate. “I want to tell you about poor Rhoda. I am certain she is pining for that stupid Mr. Wallingford. It would not have been a nice match, of course; but as she liked him, that ought to be enough; and Rhoda was never strong, and now she looks like a ghost.” “Poor thing!” murmured Sophy. “But if I remember right, Mr. Wallingford had straight hair and a long neck, and seemed terribly _poky_.” “Exactly; but if Rhoda did not think so, what did it signify?” was Kate’s somewhat involved rejoinder. “All I know is, that if anything bad happens, it will be mamma’s fault. O, she is so dreadfully hard and proud and unfeeling! And she will be worse than ever, if she gets the better of poor Arthur about the property. O, Sophy! is it not too bad that she should have things all her own way like this? Do you know, I would give ten years of my life--” “To be taken in your old age, of course,” put in Sophy, with something of her former girlish playfulness. “O, yes; that of course,” said Kate; “and besides--” But the current of her confidences was at that moment checked by the entrance through the adjoining boudoir of Mrs. Vavasour’s maid, who, in a hesitating voice, made the whispered announcement that a person calling himself Mr. Beacham was below, and was very anxious to have speech with one of the family. Both Mr. Duberly and Mr. Vavasour were out of the way, the woman said, so she had thought it best to come to Miss Catherine about it. “I will go down directly,” Kate said; but of this, Sophy, with the caprice common to invalids, would not hear. She insisted, for some reason best known to herself, on Mr. Beacham being shown into the boudoir. “You can see him there, dear,” she said to Kate; “he is a sort of gentleman you know” (poor, _poor_ John!); “and I shall not be left alone, which I hate.” Foreseeing no reason for objecting to her sister-in-law’s wish, Kate gave the necessary directions, and in a few more moments a man’s strong, vigorous step was heard treading the Aubusson carpet in Sophy’s “morning-room.” “I beg your pardon, Miss Vavasour,” John said aloud--he was totally ignorant of the fact that within earshot lay the sick and nervous wife of the man he had come to seek, the man against whom he felt as an enemy so bitter that blood could neither wash out the offence, nor quench the rage that burnt so madly in his veins--“I beg your pardon, but I require to know if you will have the goodness to tell me where I am likely to find your brother, Mr. Arthur Vavasour. The people down below, the servants, seem too grand to answer questions, so I am driven to the masters for information. He is not, I suppose, in the house, hiding behind his wife’s apron-string? He--”