She quite understood what he meant, and there was a lurking humour in her smile, as she answered: "Poor old George, he is a good sort, but quite a rough diamond. His mother married a self-made man, of course, for his money. That may account for a great deal you have noticed." Spencer had the grace to look confused. It was evident he had conveyed his private impression of Mr Dutton very distinctly to her clear young vision. But she did not seem offended, only slightly amused, at the poor figure cut by Cousin George in the estimation of a person in a superior world. Anyway, that little mystery was explained. There was nothing unusual in poor gentlewomen marrying self-made men, for the sake of money. The noble family of Southleigh had many such _mesalliances_ amongst its aristocratic records. But it was a relief to find Stella herself under no delusions concerning the young man in question. He did not think it possible she could, but as diplomatically as was possible, she admitted that Mr Dutton was not what is, technically called, a gentleman. "He is the only relative with whom I am on speaking terms," she added, after a pause, "for reasons of which I have already given you a hint. And I think I have grown rather to look forward to his visits." Her observant eyes noticed a quick stiffening in his manner. She could guess his thoughts. How was it possible for a refined young woman to ever look forward to the visits of a person like Mr Dutton, cousin though he might be? "You, of course, have heaps of relations; you can pick and choose," she went on, as if eager to explain to his fastidious taste her toleration of a man, so obviously the denizen of an inferior world. "You cannot, I daresay, imagine the loneliness of a girl of my age, debarred, through no fault of her own, from the society of her own kith and kin." Here was an opportunity to engage her in personal talk. He had not hoped she would take him into her confidence on his first visit. He leaned forward, and there was an eager note in his voice. "I formed an idea of you in the first few moments of our acquaintance, that you were not happy, that you were, in a sense, isolated, and that you had known more of sorrow than joy in your short life." She mused a moment, and then answered him in grave tones: "You were quite right. I feel it is the impression I must convey to either friend or stranger, an impression I shall always convey. For, if a great and overwhelming happiness were to come to me to-morrow, I could never forget the past years of sadness." "But, surely, you must have some happy memories? There were gleams of brightness in your childhood?" "No," she said, and there was a fierce vehemence in her voice. "They were the most miserable--an indifferent mother, a careless father, a roof and a shelter, food and clothing sufficient, if not in abundance, but no home, as it is understood by more fortunate children."