“Didn’t you know he was my uncle?” the girl asked, a little embarrassed.
“Really, I—” she began again. And then O’Hara came to the rescue:
“Our mutual friend, Miss Van Tuyl. After all, what’s in a name? Miss von Altdorf calls him ‘Uncle Max’ and you—what is your favourite pet name for him? Or is it rude of me to ask?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Hope implored, addressing the fair-haired girl beside her; “how stupid of me! Yes, of course; I met him in America when we were both very young. You were with him yesterday at Versailles, weren’t you? I remember you distinctly. Mr. Grey wrote me something very nice about you.”
“About me? Mr. Grey?” It was the Fräulein’s turn to be audibly perplexed.
“Yes, certainly, Mr. Grey wrote me about you.”
“But I don’t know any Mr. Grey.”
O’Hara laughed aloud. Should he or should he not, he asked himself, set them right and thus end this game of cross-purposes? It was very amusing, it appealed to his native love of fun and he enjoyed it, so he concluded to let the play go on.
“Why, my dear Miss von Altdorf,” Hope insisted, “do you mean to tell me that you don’t know your Uncle Max’s name is Grey?”
Minna’s eyes were wide with amazement. Could it be possible that her uncle was known in the United States by another name? The supposition was preposterous.