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It was a legend in Constantinople in Embassy circles that Lady Ingleton always "set the dogs" at bores. Even at official dinners, when she had as much as she could stand of the heavy bigwigs whom she was obliged to invite, she surreptitiously touched a bell. This was a signal to the footman to bring in the dogs, who were trained to yap at and to investigate closely visitors.
Her step-mother eyed her for a moment or two in silence. Then: "Well, my dear?" she said. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?" "Nothing particular," said Sylvia. The letters were chiefly letters of congratulation. She read them with that composure which Mrs. Ingleton most detested, and put them aside.
"Merely that if that is so, you probably can remember a lad named Roger Ingleton who lived in this house, son of the old Squire." There was a dead silence now, and the Duke looked in a startled way at the speaker. "I see you remember that boy," said the intruder; "and you probably heard the story of my I mean his quarrel with his father, and also heard of his supposed death.
When, after reading it a second time, he looked up, it was hard to believe he was the same Roger Ingleton who, a few minutes since, had broken the seal of that mysterious letter. The tutor, lost in his music, played on; the sun still flashed on the distant sea, the park still stretched away below him but all seemed part of another world to the heir of Maxfield.
"I am tied down, as you know, in the matter of my pocket-money, and can't well spare it out of my present allowance. I want the trustees to give me an extra allowance." "In other words, you want your trustees to keep Mr Robert Ratman at the rate of £250 a year. I shall agree to that the day that he satisfies me he is Roger Ingleton." "I expected you would refuse. I must ask Captain Oliphant."
She has left him and, according to him, has given herself to God. He's in a most peculiar condition. He was a model husband, absolutely devoted and entirely irreproachable. Even before marriage, I should think he had kept out of the way of things. The athlete with ideals he was that, one supposes." "How extraordinarily attractive!" said Lady Ingleton, in a lazy and rather drawling voice.
Do you hear me, Sylvia? Do you hear me?" She raised a menacing hand, but the fearless eyes never flinched. "I think you must be mad," Sylvia said. "Mad!" raved Mrs. Ingleton. "Mad because I refuse to be dictated to by an impertinent girl? Mad because I insist upon being mistress in my own house? You you little viper how dare you stand there defying me?
"I don't know whether I shall turn up again or not. It will depend pretty much on what I hear. No doubt you've set me down as a cad and a blackleg. Perhaps I am. I've not had the advantages you have. But, cad or no cad, I've a right to sign myself your brother, "Roger Ingleton, alias Robert Ratman." Roger read this remarkable epistle once or twice, in a state of mind bordering on stupefaction.
But any letters addressed to the G.P.O. I shall receive. "Your brother, "Roger Ingleton." This letter dispelled any lingering doubt, or perhaps hope, in Roger's mind that he was on a wrong scent. The writer, in protesting his inability to give any proof of his identity, had mentioned the two very circumstances which the old Squire had referred to in his posthumous letter.
"But I can't call you Mother. Anything else you like to suggest, but not that." Mrs. Ingleton uttered an unpleasant laugh. "I hope you are going to try and be sensible, my dear," she said, "for I assure you high-flown sentiment does not appeal to me in the very least. As head of your father's house, I must insist upon being treated with due respect.
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