"Yes, I do," says she, nodding her delightful little head, "and he knows it. People say a lot about family resemblances, but it seems wicked to think Uncle George is papa's brother. For my part," recklessly, "I don't believe it."
"Perhaps he's a changeling," says Sir Maurice.
"Oh, don't be silly," says Miss Bolton. "Now, listen to this." She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes glistening with wrath. "I had a terrier, a lovely one, and she had six puppies, and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them—said they were ill-bred, or something. And they weren't, they couldn't have been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted herself nearly to death after them. I begged almost on my knees that he would leave her one, and he wouldn't." Her eyes are now full of tears. "He is a beast!" says she. This last word seems almost comic, coming from her pretty childish lips.
"Well, but you see," says Rylton, "some men pride themselves on the pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle——"
"Oh, if you are going to defend him!" says she, rising with a stiff little air.
"I'm not—I'm not, indeed," says Rylton. "Nothing could excuse his refusing you that one puppy. But in other ways he is not unkind to you?"
"Yes, he is; he won't let me go anywhere."
"He has let you come here."
"Just because your mother is Lady Rylton!" says the girl, with infinite scorn. She looks straight at him. "My uncle is ashamed because we are nobodies—because his father earned his money by trade. He hates everyone because of that. My father," proudly, "was above it all."
"I think I should like to have known your father," says Rylton, admiring the pride in her gray eyes.