“It is impossible! I don’t believe it! Lord Worth is—must be—an older man!” cried Peregrine.
The gentleman smiled slightly, and drew an enamelled snuffbox from his pocket, and unfobbed it with a flick of his forefinger. The gesture brought the picture of him, as he had stood in the hall of the George Inn, back to Judith’s mind. She found her tongue suddenly, and engaging Peregrine’s silence with a movement of her hand, said in a level voice: “Is it true? Are you indeed Lord Worth?”
His glance swept her face. “Certainly I am,” he said, and took a pinch of snuff from the box, and delicately sniffed it.
She felt her brain to be reeling. “But it is surely—You, sir, cannot have been a friend of my father?”
He shut his box again, and slipped it back into his pocket. “I regret, madam, I had not that honour,” he said.
“Then—oh, there is some mistake!” she said. “There must be a mistake!”
“Quite possibly,” agreed his lordship. “But the mistake, Miss Taverner, was not mine.”
“But you are not our guardian!” Peregrine burst out.
“I am afraid there is no loophole for escape,” replied Worth. “I am your guardian.” He added kindly: “I assure you, you cannot regret the circumstance more than I do.”
“How can this be?” demanded Judith. “My father did not mean it so!”