"And where do I come in?" he asked sharply, "in what character?"
"The usual character a man assumes when a very pretty woman is in question—the rôle of lover."
Gascoigne kicked over a footstool, and rose to his feet. He had grown suddenly white.
"Who dares to couple our names in that way?" he asked hoarsely. The veins in his temples swelled, and his eyes flashed.
"Most people," was the staggering reply; "you see, you and she were alone at your forest bungalow. Mrs. Flant has been drawing a highly-coloured picture of your ménage—she has thrown out hints."
"To which no one who knows her will listen," broke in Gascoigne.
"Oh, yes, I regret to say, that there is a large class who like to hear ill-doings attributed to others—especially when those others have been sans peur, and sans reproche."
Gascoigne stared at the Padre for some seconds. At last he spoke. "I'll tell you the plain facts, Eliot. Ten years ago I adopted my little cousin, and took over the charge from her dying mother. I sent the child to England and educated her; latterly her grandmother has given her a home. They have had a violent quarrel, and the impulsive girl came straight off to me. She arrived exactly two hours before Mrs. Flant and her sister. I need scarcely say that her unexpected descent embarrassed me a good deal. That's the whole affair—I know it is unnecessary to explain myself to you"——
"Quite," was the laconic reply, "but you are in an awkward position, as guardian to a young lady; and one of such a remarkable and out of the common character. When you accepted the post she was a child—now you have a beautiful woman on your hands. You are a young man, and unmarried. This gives the enemy occasion to blaspheme."
Gascoigne muttered something which is absolutely unsuitable for print. Aloud he said, "I wish I were seventy years of age. I suppose that would shut people's mouths?"