"If so, it could scarcely be Sir Guy,—as he is not old."
"Not very. He has still a few hairs and a few teeth remaining. But won't you then answer my question? What is your ideal guardian like?"
"If you press it I shall tell you, but you must not betray me to Sir Guy," says Lilian, turning to include Lady Chetwoode in her caution. "My ideal is always a lean old gentleman of about sixty, with a stoop, and any amount of determination. He has a hooked nose on which gold-rimmed spectacles eternally stride; eyes that look one through and through; a mouth full of trite phrases, unpleasant maxims, and false teeth; and a decided tendency toward the suppression of all youthful follies."
"Guy will be an agreeable surprise. I had no idea you could be so severe."
"Nor am I. You must not think me so," says Lilian, blushing warmly and looking rather sorry for having spoken; "but you know you insisted on an answer. Perhaps I should not have spoken so freely, but that I know my real guardian is not at all like my ideal."
"How do you know? Perhaps he too is toothless, old, and unpleasant. He is a great deal older than I am."
"He can't be a great deal older."
"Why?"
"Because"—with a shy glance at the gentle face behind the urn—"Lady Chetwoode looks so young."