“Why, yes it is. At least cousin Tom’s wife is cousin Belle.”
“His father is a tall old gentleman, has trouble with his eyes, has been living in California?”
“Why yes, that is Grandpa Gil. He is a great friend of mine.”
“Hurrah!” Mr. Kemp tossed up his hat and shouted joyously. “It’s all right, Elfie; I am sure of it, for one of the Gilmore boys married my cousin and we have known them all our lives. I didn’t know Tom Gilmore was living here.”
“They haven’t been very long,” Elizabeth told him. “They only came last year. It is cousin Belle who is my mother’s first cousin. Why, we are sort of related, aren’t we?”
“Certainly we are. I say, Elfie, but this is great. I had no idea I was falling upon such luck. I will telegraph to Tom myself and I am sure it will be all right.”
And so it proved to be. The telegram was sent off without delay and the answer came back: “Go ahead. It is yours. Make yourself at home.”
Mr. Kemp came rushing up with the news to Elizabeth. “Now, Elfie,” he said, “you have got to help me and when everything is finished we will give a tea and invite some of our friends.”
“How entrancing!” exclaimed Elizabeth, clasping her hands over her breast. “Mr. Titian, you are a gem of purest ray serene.”
He had fallen into her manner of speech by now and usually matched her high-flown language by something even more grandiloquent. “And you, my dear Elfie,” he said, “shall be the reigning sovereign of my sylvan retreat. I may as well confess to you at the outset,” he went on, “that I am wondering how I shall furnish my modest abode when it is put into habitable condition.”