"I, for one, cannot--there--if you do not mind looking at this card--" He takes one out of his pocket, and I stop--we are slowly strolling back--under a lamp, to read it: MR.

FRANCIS MUSGRAVE, MUSGRAVE ABBEY.
"Oh, thanks--_Musgrave_--yes." "And Sir Roger has never mentioned me to you _really_ ?" he says, recurring with persistent hurt vanity to the topic.

"How very odd of him!" "Not in the least odd!" reply I, brusquely.

"Why should he?
He knew that I was not aware of your existence, and that therefore you would not be a very interesting subject to me; no doubt"-- (smiling a little)--"I shall hear all about you from him now." He is silent.
"And do you live _here_ at this abbey"-- (pointing to the card I still hold in my hand)--"_all by yourself_ ?" "Do you mean without a _wife_ ?" he asks, with a half-sneering smile.
"Yes--I have that misfortune." "I was not thinking of a _wife_," say I, rather angrily.

"It never occurred to me that you could have one! you are too young--a great deal too young!" "_Too young_, am I?
At what age, then, may one be supposed to deserve that blessing?
forty?
fifty?
sixty ?" I feel rather offended, but cannot exactly grasp in my own mind the ground of offense.
"I meant, of course, had you any father?
any mother ?" "Neither.