“Oh, yes, there was a reason given,” said the Doctor, more and more confused, “something about the mother--some little speck, you know, on her character: one must not inquire too closely into those family stories. But he won his suit, and now he is Duke Agostini--the hospital boy! You may imagine what a sensation it made in Rome.” “Something about his mother,” Edgar repeated vaguely, under his breath, with eyes in which a strange light suddenly sprang up. Then he bit his lip, and restrained himself. Dr. Somers, watching closely, saw that he had made an impression much more serious than he intended. He did not, indeed, intend to make any impression. He meant only, in the wantonness of fancied power, to make an experiment, to pique Edgar’s curiosity, to give him, perhaps, a passing thrill of alarm and wonder, such as an operator might give, half in jest, to curious spectators round an electric machine; but, unfortunately, the operation had been too successful, the shock overmuch. The young man said nothing farther, but sat moody, with the cigar between his fingers, and let the Doctor talk. Dr. Somers said a great deal more, but with the sense that Edgar was not listening, and that he might as well have been a hundred miles off for any companionship there was between them. And though he had in general a very good opinion of himself, for once in his life the Doctor was abashed, and felt that he had gone too far. He tried to draw the young man’s attention to other matters--to local interests--to Lord Newmarch and his enlightened views. “I may be a Radical myself,” said the Doctor, “but I do not belong to that school of Enlightened Youth. Newmarch is very appalling to me; and if you don’t mind, Edgar, you’ll find he wants to make up to Clare _too_.” “Too! is there any other?” said Edgar, with a certain languid haughtiness which was more like the Ardens than anything that had ever been seen in him before, and which gave Dr. Somers a thrill almost as sharp and sudden as that he had produced in the young Squire. “Could it be possible, at this moment, of all others, that his theory was to prove itself wrong?” “I should think there were others,” he said, with an attempt at carelessness. “Flowers like Clare do not grow in every garden, not to speak of the _dot_ which you and your father endowed her with. I suppose nothing has been done about that as yet; or have you been so wise as to take old Fazakerley’s advice?” “I think I shall go home,” said Edgar abruptly, and he got up, and lighted his cigar by the Doctor’s candle. “There was something I wanted to speak to you about, but it has gone out of my head.” “Nothing about your health, I hope,” said the Doctor anxiously. “You look quite well----”