"Because," lucidly, "she is Aunt Jane. If she were your Aunt Jane you would know."
"But my dear——"
"I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't call me 'my dear.' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to say something horrid to me. Papa——" she pauses suddenly, and tears rush to her dark eyes.
"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears raising terror in his soul.
"You knew him—speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously.
"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me, when—when I was younger. I was very fond of him."
"He was good to everyone," says Miss Wynter, staring hard at the professor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with his glasses could never have been younger. He must always have been older than the gay, handsome, debonnaire father, who had been so dear to her.
"What are you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor gently.
"Only what he used to call me—Doatie! I suppose," wistfully, "you couldn't call me that?"
"I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper.