Useless to reply, as was in fact the case, “I don’t know.” The futility of such a reply was bound to call forth one of Grandpapa’s most disconcerting sarcasms.
“I’ll find out, Grandpapa.”
Luck favoured Lydia.
As a rule, one might as well attempt to follow the course of a comet as that of Shamrock’s illicit excursions. But on this occasion Lydia at once found him in the hall, and was so much relieved at the prospect of success with Shamrock’s owner, that she failed to take notice of the stealthy manner of Shamrock’s approach, denoting a distinct consciousness of wrong-doing.
“Good little dog!” said Grandpapa delightedly. “They talk a great deal of nonsense about his sneaking off into the town and stealing from the shops—I don’t believe a word of it! He’s always here when I want him.”
At which Shamrock fawned enthusiastically upon his master, and Lydia determined the hour to be a propitious one, and began again:
“Will you give me your advice, Grandpapa?”
“Lyddie, you said that a little while ago,” said Grandpapa severely. “It’s a foolish feminine way of speaking, and I thought you had more sense.”
Lydia looked at her disconcerting grandparent in silence.
She knew herself far better able to steer clear of his many and violent prejudices than was matter-of-fact Uncle George, or unfortunate Aunt Beryl, who often seemed to go out of her way in order to fall foul of them. But this time she was conscious of perplexity.