“I am glad to hear it,” said Edgar; “and I am sure it is a very proud position. Does that Red House belong to us, Clare? But if it had belonged to us, I suppose you would not have let it to those respectable--I mean objectionable--Pimpernels?” “Don’t speak of the Pimpernels,” she said. “Oh, Edgar, if you only knew how much I dislike those sort of people--not because they are common people--on the contrary, I am very fond of the poor; but those presumptuous pushing _nouveaux riches_--don’t let us speak of them! We have got a cousin--only one; and if you were not to have any children, I suppose the estates would go to his son. But I hope they never will.” “Why?” said Edgar. “Is there any reason to suppose that his son would be less satisfactory than mine? I hope he is less problematical. Tell me about him--who is he--where is he? I feel very curious about my heir.” “And I hate to hear you speak in such a careless way,” said his sister. “Why should you show so much levity on so serious a subject? Arthur Arden is a great deal older than you are. I dislike him very much. Pray, don’t speak of him to me.” “Another subject I must not speak of!” said Edgar. “Why do you dislike him? Is it because he is my heir? You need not hate a man for that.” “But I do hate him,” said Clare, with a clouded brow; and the rest of the way to Thorne was gone over in comparative silence. The jars that kept occurring, putting now one string, now another out of tune, vibrated through both with an unceasing thrill of discord. There was no quarrel, and yet each was afraid to touch on any new subject. To be sure, it was Clare who was in the wrong; but then, why was he so light, so easily moved, so free from all natural prejudices, she said to herself? Men ought not to run from one subject to another in this careless way. They ought to be more grave, more stately in their ways of thinking, not moved by freaks of imagination. Such levity was so different from the Arden disposition that it looked almost like something wrong to Clare.