"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank eyes to meet his uncle's.
"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during the holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking. Remember that."
"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.
"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out what you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery? I ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose? You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark my words. Good-bye."
The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation. Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his salutation.
"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have you really been smoking?"
"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful response.
"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that you told him a story."
"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand it," he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I promised father I wouldn't."
"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither he nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"