“No, admitted Kate, blushing faintly. “That is, I was thought to favour my mother, but she was much more beautiful than I am.”

“And she died when you were twelve? Poor child! I wish I might have known, but I was still in the schoolroom when my brother married her, and only a child when he first joined, so that he was almost a stranger to me. Do you blame me for not having tried, in later years, to better my acquaintance with him? Pray do not!”

“Oh, no!” Kate said. “He did not, either.” She glanced up into that handsome countenance, a tiny crease between her brows, and in her eyes a doubtful question. “Don’t you remember him, ma’am? He remembered you!”

“Very likely: he was six-and-twenty when I was sixteen. I only wish he may have remembered something to my credit, but when I look back upon myself I realize that at that age I must have been a detestable girl, with a very good conceit of myself, and my head stuffed with every sort of ambitious notion, from making a brilliant marriage to winning the admiration of all by some improbable deed of heroism! I fear my governess was to blame: she was much addicted to reading sentimental romances, and she permitted me to do so too.”

Kate smiled, reassured. “Papa did say that you were very ambitious, she admitted.

“He might well! I hope he knew that I outgrew such nonsense, and instead of marrying a prince or a duke fell in love with my dear Sir Timothy. I must tell you, my dear, that he was almost as pleased as I was when he learned of your existence. He would have accompanied me to London if I had allowed him to do so, but I was obliged to forbid it. You see, I have to take great care of him: he doesn’t enjoy good health, and the journey would have quite knocked him up. So he charged me with a message, that a warm welcome awaits you at Staplewood.”