"I--I think so, uncle. You shall judge."
"You speak in a voice of doubt. Listen to me, Nansie. I may call you so?"
"Surely, surely. It gives me pleasure."
"Listen, then. If there is anything in my voice or manner to cause you uneasiness, account for it by the fact that I know little of women, as you yourself said. It is sometimes my way--not always, and seldom unless I am somewhat shaken. If you had informed me that you were coming I should have been prepared. I should not then have thought, when my eyes fell upon you, that it was your mother I was gazing upon, and not her daughter."
"I am sorry," murmured Nansie.
"There is nothing to be sorry for. These reminders do a man--especially a recluse like myself--no harm. You are turning white. Are you going to faint again?"
"No; I will not allow myself."
"I have some brandy in the house. Shall I give you a little? It is a medicine."
"No, thank you, uncle; I never touch it."
"What is it, then, that makes you so white? Stay. A cup of tea?"