That she quite ignored her own relationship to the culprit was not lost on Bertram. He made instant response.
“As near as I can make out,” he replied smoothly, “YOUR brother has fallen under the sway of a pair of great dark eyes, two pink cheeks, and an unknown quantity of curly hair, all of which in its entirety is his namesake, is lonesome, and is in need of a home.”
“But she can't live—here!”
“Will says she shall.”
“But that is utter nonsense,” cut in Cyril.
“For once I agree with you, Cyril,” laughed Bertram; “but William doesn't.”
“But how can she do it?” demanded Kate.
“Don't know,” answered Bertram. “He's established a petticoat propriety in you for a few hours, at least. Meanwhile, he's going to think. At least, he says he is, and that we've got to help him.”
“Humph!” snapped Kate. “Well, I can prophesy we sha'n't think alike—so you'd notice it!”
“I know that,” nodded Bertram; “and I'm with you and Cyril on this. The whole thing is absurd. The idea of thrusting a silly, eighteen-year-old girl here into our lives in this fashion! But you know what Will is when he's really roused. You might as well try to move a nice good-natured mountain by saying 'please,' as to try to stir him under certain circumstances. Most of the time, I'll own, we can twist him around our little fingers. But not now. You'll see. In the first place, she's the daughter of his dead friend, and she DID write a pathetic little letter. It got to the inside of me, anyhow, when I thought she was a boy.”