You’ve never observed that feast, so far as I can remember.”
Her brother’s affability did not deceive Mrs. Milvain; it slightly saddened her; she well knew the cause of it. Blind and infatuated as usual!
“Who is this Mr. Denham?” she asked.
“Ralph Denham?” said Mr. Hilbery, in relief that her mind had taken this turn. “A very interesting young man. I’ve a great belief in him. He’s an authority upon our mediæval institutions, and if he weren’t forced to earn his living he would write a book that very much wants writing.”
“He is not well off, then?” Mrs. Milvain interposed.
“Hasn’t a penny, I’m afraid, and a family more or less dependent on him.”
“A mother and sisters?—his father is dead?”
“Yes, his father died some years ago,” said Mr. Hilbery, who was prepared to draw upon his imagination, if necessary, to keep Mrs. Milvain supplied with facts about the private history of Ralph Denham since, for some inscrutable reason, the subject took her fancy.
“His father has been dead some time, and this young man had to take his place———”
“A legal family?” Mrs. Milvain inquired. “I fancy I’ve seen the name somewhere.”
Mr. Hilbery shook his head. “I should be inclined to doubt whether they were altogether in that walk of life,” he observed. “I fancy that Denham once told me that his father was a corn merchant. Perhaps he said a stockbroker. He came to grief, anyhow, as stockbrokers have a way of doing. I’ve a great respect for Denham,” he added. The remark sounded to his ears unfortunately conclusive, and he was afraid that there was nothing more to be said about Denham. He examined the tips of his fingers carefully. “Cassandra’s grown into a very charming young woman,” he started afresh. “Charming
