"Well, then, it was because you insisted on my getting a letter from him,—and—and that's the only way I could think of."
Azalea gave a half-smile, hoping Farnsworth would laugh, too.
But he did not. He said, sternly, "I can't understand you, Azalea. I don't want to misjudge you, but you must admit, yourself, that you're making it very hard for me. Why won't you tell me everything? If Uncle Thorpe disowned you,—cast you off,—or anything like that,—tell me; I'll take your part,—and I'll defend you."
"Would you, Cousin William?" Azalea's voice was wistful; "would you defend me?"
The serious tone disturbed Farnsworth more than her anger had done, and he looked at her keenly.
"Yes," he answered, "but only if you are frank and truthful with me. Now, once again, Azalea, what is the real name of the man who called you up yesterday?"
"Brown," said Azalea, and Farnsworth gave a gesture of impatience.
"You're a very poor story-teller!" he exclaimed. "It is not Brown,—or Green,—or Smith. If you had said some less common name, I might have believed you. But your inventiveness doesn't go far enough. When people want to deceive, it's necessary to frame their falsehoods convincingly. If you had said Mersereau or Herncastle,—I might have swallowed it."
Azalea stared at him.
"Why would you have thought those names were right?" she asked.