"You!" I exclaimed. "The last!"
"Yes," she said, "when my father dies the estates will pass to my
second cousin, Lord George Willoughby, and our branch of the
family will become extinct."
"You fill me with despair," I said.
"My father never can forgive me for being a girl," she said.
"I can," I remarked, "even at the risk of appearing disloyal to
the race."
"Fyles," she said, addressing me straight out by my first name,
and with a little air that told me plainly I had made good my
footing in the fold, "Fyles, what a pity you aren't the rightful
heir, come from overseas with parchments and parish registers, to
make good your claim before the House of Lords."
"Wouldn't that be rather hard on you?" I asked.
"I'd rather give up everything than see the old place pass to
strangers," she said.
"But I'm a stranger," I said.
"You're Fyles ffrench," she exclaimed, "and a man, and you'd hand
the old name down and keep the estate together."
"And guard the little f with the last drop of my blood," I said.
"Ah, well!" she said, with a little sigh, "the world's a
disappointing place at best, and I suppose it serves us right for
centuries of conceit about ourselves."
"That at least will never die," I observed. "The American branch
will see to that part of it."
"It's a pity, though, isn't it?" she said.
"Well," I said, "when a family has been carrying so much dog for a
thousand years, I suppose in common fairness it's time to give way
for another.
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