This speech perplexed me. Mr. George Ralph Jephson, who was standing in the shadow behind me, although inclined very much to grey now, had evidently had very dark hair, while his eyes were of a deep, almost dark grey.
“May I read the will?”
“Is everything given to Rafy?”
“Yes; listen——
“I, Eleanor Glasson, devise and bequeath all the property, real and personal, I die seized and possessed of, or to which I may become entitled to in expectancy, reversion, or remainder, to my dear nephew, George Ralph Jephson.”——
“Say to Rafy; write Rafy. Will not that do?” interrupted the old lady in a tone of mingled tenderness and eagerness.
“But I had better put in his full name,” I said.
“Well, then, read it again.”
I read.
“Not George! Ralph—Rafy. It is to Rafy.”