She thought he was half-asleep when unexpectedly he accosted her, referring to the subject in which he had seemed to take but slight interest.

“Did you say that puppy’s name was Wyndham?”

“He isn’t a puppy,” said Daisy, quick to defend her friend.

He smiled his tolerant amusement.  “My dear little woman, that wasn’t the point of my enquiry.”

Daisy stiffened.  She suddenly began to sew very fast indeed, without speaking.  Her pretty lips were compressed, but Hunt-Goring seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact.  He smiled to himself as at some inward thought.

“You did say his name was Wyndham, I think?” he said, after a moment.

“I did,” said Daisy.

“There was a fellow of the same name who lived at Weir,” observed Hunt-Goring.  “He was the doctor’s assistant; had to leave in something of a hurry, I believe.  There was the beginning of a scandal, but it was hushed up—­strangled at birth, so to speak.”

“What?” said Daisy.  She looked across at him swiftly, her dignity and work alike forgotten.

Hunt-Goring still smiled placidly.  “I daresay it might be described as a regrettable incident.  It concerned the sudden death of a young girl at which event the said Dr. Wyndham presided.  I really shouldn’t have mentioned it if it hadn’t been for the familiarity of the name.”

“They are brothers,” said Daisy.

“Really!  That is strange.”  Again Hunt-Goring barely concealed a yawn.  “Olga Ratcliffe used to be somewhat smitten with the young man in what I might call her calf days.  Doubtless she has got over that by now, especially as the girl who died was a friend of hers.”

“But she can’t know of that!” said Daisy quickly.  “She has been very ill, you know—­an illness brought on by the shock of it all.”

“Indeed!” said Hunt-Goring, and became significantly silent.

Daisy continued to look at him.  “She has not got over it,” she said slowly at length, speaking as though uttering her thoughts aloud.  “He is out here now, arrived only last week.  And—­they are engaged to be married.”

“Chacun a son gout!” observed Hunt-Goring.

She made a sharp movement of impatience.  “Oh, don’t be so cold-blooded!  Tell me—­do tell me—­the whole story!”

“My dear Daisy,” said Hunt-Goring daringly, “there is practically nothing more to tell.”

“But there must be,” Daisy argued, ignoring side-issues.  “How did the gossip arise?  There is never smoke without some fire.”

“True,” said Hunt-Goring.  “But for the truth of the gossip I will not vouch.  It ran in this wise.  The girl was beautiful—­and gay.  The man—­well, you have had some experience of the species; you know what they are.  Trouble arose; there was madness in the girl’s family.  She became demented; and a certain magic draught did the rest.  It was risky of course; but it was a choice of evils.  He chose the surest means of protecting his reputation—­which, I believe, is considered valuable in his profession.”