“Then, if a man tells a lie, he is not a gentleman?” “I do not say that; I say that to tell lies is ungentlemanly?” “Does that mean that he may tell _some_ lies, and yet be a gentleman?” Lady Ann was afraid to go on. She saw that to go on answering the girl from the colonies, with her troublesome freedom of thought and question, might land her in a bog of contradictions. “How many lies may a gentleman tell in a day?” pursued the straight-going Barbara. “Not any,” answered lady Ann. “Does the same rule hold for ladies?” “Y--e--s----I should say so,” replied her ladyship--with hesitation, for she suspected being slowly driven into some snare. She knew she was not careful enough to speak the truth--so much she confessed to herself, the fact being that, to serve any purpose she thought worth gaining, she would lie without a scruple--taking care, however, to keep the lie as like the truth as consisted with success, in order that, if she were found out, it might seem she had mistaken. Barbara noted the uncertainty of the sound her ladyship's trumpet gave, and began to be assured that the laws of society were no firm stepping-stones, and that society itself was a morass, where one must spend her life in jumping from hump to hump, or be swallowed up. She had been wondering how far, if Richard proved heir to a baronetcy, his education and manners would decree him no gentleman; but it was useless to seek light from lady Ann. As they talked, however, the feeling came and grew upon her, that she was not herself acting like a lady, in going so much to her house, and being received by her as a friend, when all the time she knew something she did not know, something it was important for her to know, something she had a right and a claim to know. She would herself hate to live on what was not her own, as lady Ann would be left to do when sir Wilton died, if the truth about Richard remained undisclosed! It was very unfair to leave them unwarned for this reason besides, that so the fact might at last find them, for lack of preparation, without resource! “I want to talk to you about something, lady Ann,” she said. “You can't but know that a son of sir Wilton's was stolen when he was a baby, and never found!” It was the first time for many years that lady Ann had heard the thing alluded to except once or twice by her husband. Her heart seemed to make a somersault, but not a visible muscle moved. What could the girl be hinting at? Were there reports about? She must let her talk!--the more freely the better! “Every one knows that!” she answered. “It is but too true. It happened after my marriage. I was in the house at the time.--What of it, child? There can be little hope of his turning up now--after twenty years!” “I believe he has turned up. I believe I know him.” Lady Ann jumped to the most natural, most mistaken conclusion.