“And now,” said Lady Pell presently, settling herself in her chair with a comfortable conviction that she was about to listen to a most interesting recital, “and now, cousin Gilbert, for your chapter of family romance. I confess that I am dying to hear the genuine version of the affair.” For a couple of minutes or so Sir Gilbert lay back with closed eyes, as if endeavouring to concentrate his thoughts on the task he had set himself to go through with. Then, in a low voice, slowly and hesitatingly at first, he began to tell that story with which the reader is already familiar. With some of its earlier incidents Lady Pell was acquainted; for instance, she knew that Alec Clare had left home in consequence of having quarrelled with his father about money matters, that, later on, he had settled in the United States, and there, some few years afterwards, had come to an untimely end. But the rest of Sir Gilbert’s narrative, from the incident of the cutting off of the entail to his daughter-in-law’s presentation of herself at the Chase, and his ultimate acknowledgment of his grandson, had for Lady Pell all the charm of novelty. She knew how much Sir Gilbert disliked being interrupted, and she listened to him in silence, but she caused him to feel that it was the silence of one who was deeply interested in all he had to tell her. Neither was she in a hurry to speak when at length he had come to an end. Her first words were: “Thank you, cousin Gilbert.” Then, after a momentary pause: “I appreciate to the full the confidence you have seen fit to repose in me, and I need scarcely tell you it will be as sacred with me as if it had been poured into the ear of a father confessor. Certainly your narrative is a most extraordinary one; but one has only to read ‘The Romance of the Peerage’ to discover that still stranger things, and all duly authenticated, are associated with the private histories of some of our oldest families. Still, with all due deference, I must say that in this Italian-looking grandson of yours, I am unable to find a single trait which helps to recall his father to my memory, if, indeed, poor Alec was his father.” Sir Gilbert gave vent to a little angry snort. “Do you mean to imply, Louisa, that——” Lady Pell laid a hand on his sleeve. “I mean to imply nothing. I only hope that you sifted the evidence most thoroughly before bringing yourself to accept this young man as your dead son’s offspring.” “What do you take me for, Louisa? There was no flaw in the evidence—none whatever.” Lady Pell tapped her teeth with her fan. “Do you know, Gilbert,” she said, “that I felt quite grieved when one day in the _Times_ obituary I came across a notice of the death of Mr. Page, your old adviser, whom I remember quite well. What a pity it is he did not live a few years longer.” The old man’s shaggy brows came together for a moment, but that was the only notice he took.