"There's a sort of secret about my age," he confided. "Mr. Duncombe likes me to tell every one that I am twenty."
"And aren't you?" I asked curiously.
He shook his head.
"I shall be twenty-one on Saturday," he said. "I shall be able to sign cheques of my own then—and make my will."
"What do you want to make your will for?" Rose asked. "You're strong enough, aren't you?"
"It is the duty of every one with a great deal of money to make their will directly they are twenty-one," the boy declared, as though repeating a lesson. "If I had my own way," he added, looking up at Rose, "I should leave a great deal of money to you, but I don't suppose I shall be allowed to."
"Good gracious, Mr. Dompers!" Rose exclaimed. "Why, I scarcely know you!"
"I like your face," the young man continued earnestly. "If you saw the faces of the people who are staying at the Grange, you would know what I mean. They all look as though they wanted something. They remind me sometimes of a pack of hounds. And they pretend not to, but they are always watching me."
We had been so engrossed in the self-disclosures of this half-witted young man that we had not noticed the approach of another promenader along the sands. It was a very different person who now accosted us, hat in hand and a courteous smile upon his lips. There was not a single criticism in which the most fastidious might indulge against Hilary Duncombe's address, his manners or his clothes.
"Good morning! I am glad to see that my young ward has been finding friends."