“But was he not also one of yours?” said Randolph bluntly.

“I think I told you I was the friend of the boy and of poor Paquita, the boy’s mother,” said Miss Avondale quietly.  “I never saw Captain Dornton but twice.”

Randolph noticed that she had not said “wife,” although in her previous confidences she had so described the mother.  But, as Dingwall had said, why should she have exposed the boy’s illegitimacy to a comparative stranger; and if she herself had been deceived about it, why should he expect her to tell him?  And yet—­he was not satisfied.

He was startled by a little laugh.  “Well, I declare, you look as if you resented the fact that your benefactor had turned out to be a baronet—­just as in some novel—­and that you have rendered a service to the English aristocracy.  If you are thinking of poor Bobby,” she continued, without the slightest show of self-consciousness, “Sir William will provide for him, and thinks of taking him to England to restore his health.  Now”—­with her smiling, tolerant superiority—­“you must go and talk to Miss Eversleigh.  I see her looking this way, and I don’t think she half likes me as it is.”

Randolph, who, however, also saw that Sir William was lounging toward them, here rose formally, as if permitting the latter to take the vacated seat.  This partly imposed on him the necessity of seeking Miss Eversleigh, who, having withdrawn to the other end of the room, was turning over the leaves of an album.  As Randolph joined her, she said, without looking up, “Is Miss Avondale a friend of yours?”

The question was so pertinent to his reflections at the moment that he answered impulsively, “I really don’t know.”

“Yes, that’s the answer, I think, most of her acquaintances would give, if they were asked the same question and replied honestly,” said the young girl, as if musing.

“Even Sir William?” suggested Randolph, half smiling, yet wondering at her unlooked-for serious shrewdness as he glanced toward the sofa.

“Yes; but he wouldn’t care.  You see, there would be a pair of them.”  She stopped with a slight blush, as if she had gone too far, but corrected herself in her former youthful frankness:  “You don’t mind my saying what I did of her?  You’re not such a particular friend?”

“We both owe a debt of gratitude to your cousin Jack,” said Randolph, in some embarrassment.

“Yes, but you feel it and she doesn’t.  So that doesn’t make you friends.”

“But she has taken good care of Captain Dornton’s child,” suggested Randolph loyally.

He stopped, however, feeling that he was on dangerous ground.  But Miss Eversleigh put her own construction on his reticence, and said,—­

“I don’t think she cares for it much—­or for any children.”