Thrust: here was another word which seemed to say she was not welcome.
“I beg your pardon,” lisped the child, thinking she ought to speak.
“No, no; a lady is very like a king—she never does wrong or needs pardon; ’tis this great lout of a boy here that is the aggressor.”
Whereupon the somewhat awkward, shy lad on the hearth laid down knife and toasting-fork, and came towards her.
“Well, whoever you are, will you please sit here?” said he, setting her a chair by the table, and taking another himself behind the urn.
“With a lady in the room, you’ll never do that,” said the gentleman, spying comically at [p29] him from where he still stood on the hearth, as the boy began to brew the tea.
“Oh no, thank you; I couldn’t manage the urn,” said Inna.
“I thought not,” growled Oscar, a big, handsome, fair-haired boy of eleven, with grey-blue eyes. “And now, here I am without a cup for you.”
Inna had not taken the seat he offered her by the table, but had glided round to the gentleman on the hearth. Oscar made a bolt from the room to fetch a cup and saucer.
“Won’t you say you will like to have me here, Uncle—Uncle Jonathan?” she asked hesitatingly. Such a mite she was, glancing up at the tall red-haired gentleman turning grey, such blushes coming and going in her cheeks.