“You mean, I suppose, that I have no right to ask such questions!” she cried; “that I am not behaving like a lady—­as one of your relations would?  Well, I dare say!  I was not brought up like that.  I was not brought up at all; I have had to make myself.  So you must avoid me if you like.  Of course you will.  But I resolved there—­in the church—­that I would make just one effort, before everything crystallises, to break through.  If we must live on here hating our neighbours and being cut by them, I thought I would just ask you why, first.  There is no one else to ask.  Hardly anybody has called, except the Hardens, and a few new people that don’t matter.  And I have nothing to be ashamed of,” said the girl passionately, “nor has mamma.  Papa, I suppose, did some bad things long ago.  I have never known—­I don’t know now—­what they were.  But I should like to understand.  Is everybody going to cut us because of that?”

With a great effort Aldous Raeburn pulled himself together, certain fine instincts both of race and conduct coming to his help.  He met her excited look by one which had both dignity and friendliness.

“I will tell you what I can, Miss Boyce.  If you ask me, it is right I should.  You must forgive me if I say anything that hurts you.  I will try not—­I will try not!” he repeated earnestly.  “In the first place, I know hardly anything in detail.  I do not remember that I have ever wished to know.  But I gather that some years ago—­when I was still a lad—­something in Mr. Boyce’s life—­some financial matters, I believe—­during the time that he was member of Parliament, made a scandal, and especially among his family and old friends.  It was the effect upon his old father, I think, who, as you know, died soon afterwards—­”

Marcella started.

“I didn’t know,” she said quickly.

Aldous Raeburn’s distress grew.

“I really oughtn’t to speak of these things,” he said, “for I don’t know them accurately.  But I want to answer what you said—­I do indeed.  It was that, I think, chiefly.  Everybody here respected and loved your grandfather—­my grandfather did—­and there was great feeling for him—­”

“I see!  I see!” said Marcella, her chest heaving; “and against papa.”

She walked on quickly, hardly seeing where she was going, her eyes dim with tears.  There was a wretched pause.  Then Aldous Raeburn broke out—­

“But after all it is very long ago.  And there may have been some harsh judgment.  My grandfather may have been misinformed as to some of the facts.  And I—­”

He hesitated, struck with the awkwardness of what he was going to say.  But Marcella understood him.

“And you will try and make him alter his mind?” she said, not ungratefully, but still with a touch of sarcasm in her tone.  “No, Mr. Raeburn, I don’t think that will succeed.”

They walked on in silence for a little while.  At last he said, turning upon her a face in which she could not but see the true feeling of a just and kindly man—­