"O, my sainted Aunt Jemima!" he murmured. "In the picturesque language of the country this sure beats—er—I mean it's a bit too thick for me. She didn't approve of me because I was an idler and presumably a remittance man. Very well. I cut off my income and became a hired man. Then she wouldn't marry me because I was. Now she won't see me or speak to me because I'm not. Kind lady, having been a girl yourself, will you please tell me what I am to do about it?"
Faith laughed at his woebegone countenance. "The whole trouble is that you weren't frank with her. What was play to you—a good joke—was the most serious thing in life to her. While she was considering and planning in earnest for the future you were laughing at her. Perhaps a man can't appreciate it; but a woman finds such things hard to forgive."
"I'll apologize," Chetwood said. "I'll eat crow. Mrs. Angus, like an angel, do help me with the future Lady Chet—er—I mean—"
"What!" Faith cried.
"Oh, Lord!" Chetwood ejaculated, "there go the beans. Nothing, nothing! I don't know what I'm saying, really!"
"Don't you dare to deceive me!" Faith admonished sternly. "Lady Chetwood! What do you mean?"
"But it's not my fault," the luckless young man protested. "I can't help it. It's hereditary. When the old boy died—"
"What old boy?"
"My uncle, Sir Eustace. I was named after him. And I couldn't help that."
"Do you mean to tell me," Faith accused him severely, "that on top of all your deceptions you have a title? Oh, Jean will never forgive this!"