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“It is no use, Roger, I never trusted that young man, and how can you expect me to begin now when—when he has justified all my worst suspicions?”

Roger Learmonth bit one end of his grey moustache, and then inspected it with an air of puzzled weariness as he spoke.

“I’m not asking you to like him, Sophia, but we must treat him civilly. There’s no doubt he is Adelaide’s son—and Pamela’s husband.”

“Roger! When have you ever known me uncivil?”

He did not answer. Perhaps he could not think of an occasion. Perhaps not. Aunt Sophia paused rhetorically, and resumed with a more concentrated energy.

“I consider that his conduct in forcing himself upon the poor child when she was alone and helpless———”

“She seems very happy,” interjected Roger mildly.

“She knows no better—when she was helpless and friendless, was disgraceful. He knew that we should find it difficult to treat him as he deserves, once he was married to her. He forced himself on the family, and he behaves as if everything belongs to him.”

“Well, it does,” thought Roger, but this time he did not venture to say it aloud, contenting himself with remarking, “At any rate, you must admit that no one could have been more generous over the settlements———”

“I don’t consider they were his to make. I am by no means sure that he is not an impostor, even now. It is not my fault if he does not know what I think of him.”