“Go ahead, my dear,” said the old gentleman, stroking her golden hair. Her father had curls like that when he was a boy.
“Something dreadful I’ve done, you know. But you won’t be very angry, will you?”
“We’ll see.”
“You oughtn’t to be, because you’re not very good yourself, are you?” and she first glanced up into his burnt-out old eyes and then pressed her lips on his knotted lean old hand.
“Aggy,” said he, “I expect you play the deuce with the young fellows, don’t you?”
Agatha laughed softly, but a frown succeeded.
“That’s just it,” she said. “Now, you’re to listen and not interrupt, or I shall never be able to manage it. And you’re not to look at me, grandpapa.”
The narrative—that thrice-told tale—began. As the comments of Mr. Taylor and Mrs. Blunt were omitted, those of Lord Thrapston may well receive like treatment, more especially as they tended not to edification; but before his granddaughter had finished her story the old man had sworn softly four times and chuckled audibly twice.
“I knew there was a girl in that temple, soon as Calder told me,” said he.
“But you didn’t know who it was. Oh, and Calder doesn’t?”