“Hang it all, Penelope,” he said. “I did n't say anything, don't you know.”
“I was just thinking,” she said hastily, “what fun it would be for us to explore the haunted house.”
“Oh, I say, Pen, that's going out of the way for a little fun, is n't it? My word, it 's a filthy old house with rats and mice and all that—no place for a ghost, much less a nice little human being like you. They're like that.”
“I think you are afraid to go,” said she.
“Afraid of ghosts? Pshaw!” sniffed the duke, sticking out his chest.
“Yes, Shaw! That's whom you're afraid of.”
“Now, see here, Pen, you should n't say that. Shaw's a d—, a cad. See what Cecil did to him. Remember that? Well, pooh! What would I do to him?” Penelope looked him over critically.
“I'll admit that you're larger and younger than Cecil,” she confessed grudgingly. “But they say Mr. Shaw is a giant-killer.” The duke dropped his monocle and guffawed loudly.
“Good!” he cried in the ecstasy of pride. His worn, dissipated face lighted up with unwonted interest. “I say, Pen, that's the nicest thing you've said to me in a week. You've been so deuced cold of late. I don't understand. I'm not such a bad lot, you know.”
“Tell that to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. Corwith. They're looking for the good in everything.”