"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Let me recommend a glass of wine. Why don’t you just tell me what is going on with you! Why the police questioned you! Why they’re looking for your mother? I’ll understand! Just tell me and I swear to God Lucy I’ll understand. ’ ‘Get on, Hilary, do,’ begged Lucilla. As soon as she noticed the stranger, she honoured him with an extremely impudent stare, and scarcely endeavoured to disguise the admiration with which his good looks impressed her. A quarter of an hour passed.
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