“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Graham, “but in my mind there’s a great difference.  Now, Mr. Graham’s ancestors boast of the best blood of South Carolina, while my family, everybody knows, was one of the first in Virginia, so if Durward had been Mr. Graham’s son instead of Sir Arthur’s, I should be just as proud of him, just as particular whom he married.”

“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, a little piqued, for there was something in Mrs. Graham’s manner which annoyed her—­“certainly—­I understand you.  I neither married a nobleman, nor one of the best bloods of South Carolina, and still I should not be willing for my son to marry—­let me see—­well, say ’Lena Rivers.”

“’Lena Rivers !” repeated Mrs. Graham—­“why, I would not suffer Durward to look at her, if I could help it.  She’s of a horridly low family on both sides, as I am told.”

This was a home thrust which Mrs. Livingstone could not endure quietly, and as she had no wish to defend the royalty of a family which she herself despised, she determined to avenge the insult by making her companion as uncomfortable as possible.  So she said, “Perhaps you are not aware that your son’s attentions to this same ’Lena Rivers, are becoming somewhat marked.”

“No, I was not aware of it,” and the greenish-gray eyes fastened inquiringly upon Mrs. Livingstone, who continued:  “It is nevertheless true, and as I can appreciate your feelings, I thought it might not be out of place for me to warn you.”

“Thank you,” returned Mrs. Graham, now raising herself upon her elbow, “Thank you—–­but do you know anything positive?  What has Durward done?”

“’Lena is in Frankfort now, at Mr. Douglass’s,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, “and your son is in the constant habit of visiting there; besides that, he invited her to ride with him when they all went to Frankfort—­’Lena upon the gray pony which your husband gave her as a Christmas present.”

Mrs. Livingstone had touched the right spot.  ’Twas the first intimation of Vesta which Mrs. Graham had received, and now sitting bolt upright, she demanded what Mrs. Livingstone meant.  “My husband give ’Lena Rivers a pony!  Harry Graham do such a thing!  It can’t be possible.  There must be some mistake.”

“I think not,” returned Mrs. Livingstone.  “Your son came over with it, saying ’it was a present from his father, who sent it, together with his compliments.’”

Back among her cushions tumbled Mrs. Graham, moaning, groaning, and pronouncing herself wholly heart-broken.  “I knew he was bad,” said she, “but I never dreamed it had come to this.  And I might have known it, too, for from the moment he first saw that girl, he has acted like a crazy creature.  Talks about her in his sleep—­wants me to adopt her—­keeps his eyes on her every minute when he’s where she is; and to crown all, without consulting me, his lawful wife, he has made her a present, which must have cost more than a hundred dollars!  And she accepted it—­the vixen!”