“He hardly succeeded in doing that,” observed Blanche Farrow dryly.  “Our ancestors lived less comfortably than we do now, Miss Brabazon.  Instead of beautiful old Persian carpets, there must have been rushes on all the floors.  And as for the furniture of those days—­it was probably all made of plain, hard, unpolished wood.”

“Well, at any rate,”—­the girl spoke with a touch of impatience—­“Milly hated this place.  She told me once she had never known a day’s real happiness till her marriage.  That’s what made it seem so infinitely sad that it lasted such a short time.”

“I suppose,” said the other slowly, “that they were married altogether about seven months?”

“I fancy rather longer than that.  She was quite well, or so she thought, when she married.  They travelled about for a while on the Continent, and she told me once she enjoyed every minute of it!  And then her health began to give way, and they took this house at Redsands.  They chose it because Mr. Varick knew something of the doctor there—­he didn’t know him very well, but they became very great friends, in fact such friends that poor Milly left him a legacy—­I think it was five hundred pounds.  Dr. Panton was most awfully good to her, but of course he hadn’t the slightest idea that she was leaving him anything.  I never saw a man more surprised than he was when I told him about it the day of her death.  Mr. Varick asked me to do so, and he was quite overcome.”

She smiled.  Five hundred pounds evidently did not seem very much to Miss Brabazon.

“I suppose she had a good deal of money?”

The late Mrs. Varick’s friend hesitated a moment, then answered at last, “I think she had about twenty thousand pounds—­at least I know that that sum was mentioned in the Times list of wills.”

The other was startled—­disagreeably startled.  She had understood, from something Lionel had said to her, that he now had five thousand a year.  “This place must be worth a good deal,” she observed.  She told herself that perhaps the late Mrs. Varick had left twenty thousand pounds in money, and that the bulk of her income had come from land.

“Yes, but unfortunately poor Milly couldn’t leave Wyndfell Hall to Mr. Varick.  He only has a life interest in it.”

Helen Brabazon spoke in a curiously decided way, as if she were used to business.

Blanche was again very much surprised.  She had certainly understood that this wonderful old house and its very valuable contents belonged to Lionel Varick absolutely.  “Are you sure of that?” she began—­and then she stopped speaking, for her quick ears had detected the sound of an opening and shutting door.

CHAPTER IV

After a few moments the five men sorted themselves among the ladies.  Old Mr. Burnaby and young Donnington went and sat by Bubbles, the gloomy-looking James Tapster also finally sidling uncertainly towards her.  Sir Lyon civilly devoted himself to Miss Burnaby; and Lionel Varick came over to where Blanche Farrow was sitting, and said something to her in a low voice.