“We are coming Uncle,” called Mrs. Ashby, laughing softly as she pictured the gray-haired old Admiral striding up and down the wide hall anathematizing all the schools in creation and launching side shots at the boys because they were laughing at him. His roar was far worse than his attack as the lads well knew, as sitting—no, sprawling—upon the big claw-foot sofa they did not hesitate to let fly a projectile or two in return, only to howl at the result, for well both knew his weakness for his grandniece. “She could wind him around her little finger,” they said.
A moment later Mrs. Ashby appeared at the top of the landing to be greeted by:
“Come and hear these letters. Where’s Beverly?”
“She will be down as soon as she changes her riding skirt.”
The boys snickered.
Turning upon them the Admiral demanded:
“What are you young scamps chortling about?”
“Bev,” answered his nephew. “Did you see her when she came in?”
“Now what was the matter with her? She’s usually all right.”
“Oh, nothing. Just a trifle muddy. Mother can describe her appearance better than we can I reckon,” laughed Athol, Jr.