“Please, tell me!” said Mrs. Pimpernel. “One hears hints, you know; but it would be so much more satisfactory from one of the family. Do, please, tell me. He snubbed him dreadfully, and never educated him, nor gave him any allowance nor anything. Fancy, his own father! But there must have been some cause.” “He was a very peculiar man,” said Arthur Arden. “There are things in families, you know, which don’t bear discussion. If I was more hard-hearted than I am, or more indifferent to the credit of the name---- But never mind--it is a question I would rather not discuss.” “Oh, Mr. Arden!” cried Alice Pimpernel, clasping her hands, and looking up at him with unfeigned admiration. Yes, he was more interesting than Mr. Denbigh, with that fine family face, and all its romantic associations--and sacrificing himself, too, for the good of the family. How grand it was! The Pimpernels, too, had certain features which were peculiar to them; but oh! how different from the Ardens. Mr. Denbigh was interesting too--he was very nice and attractive, and second cousin to the Earl of Tintagel. But he had not a story to attract the imagination like this. “I would never insist upon confidence,” said Mrs. Pimpernel; it is against my principles, even with my own child. If it’s about money, I always say, ‘Speak to your papa--he is the one to manage all that;’ and, between ourselves, he is a great deal too liberal; he never knows how to say ‘No’ to any of them. But if it’s their feelings, I never exact anything. I am always ready to do my best, but confidence is a thing I would never exact.” “It is a thing I should be most ready to give,” said Arthur Arden, with a bow and a smile, “if the secret were only mine. But my poor cousin Edgar--he is a most worthy fellow--an excellent fellow. I confess I was prejudiced against him, which is not unnatural, you know, considering that he stands, between me and---- But really it is a question I must not enter on.” “Anything you may say to us will be sacred, you may be sure,” Mrs. Pimpernel said, with breathless interest; and Alice looked up appealingly in his face. They were quite tremulous with expectation, looking for some romance of real life, something more exciting than gossip. Arthur Arden could scarcely restrain the impulse to mystify them at least; but he remembered that it might be dangerous, and refrained. “No,” he said, with a sigh, shaking his head, “not even to you. If it were my own secret you should have it fast enough; but I must not betray another’s. No, no. And poor Edgar is an excellent fellow--as good a fellow as ever breathed.”