“Ah,” said Sir Richard brazenly, “but you do not know the half of it! You think he looks a young innocent, but I could tell you a tale of his depravity which would shock you.”
“Oh, how dare you?” said Pen indignantly. “It isn’t true! Indeed, it isn’t!”
The occupants of the coach had by this time ranged themselves into two camps. Several persons said that they had suspected the young varmint of running away from the start, and Pen’s supporters demanded to know who Sir Richard was, and what right he had to drag the poor young gentleman out of the coach.
“Every right!” responded Sir Richard. “I am his guardian. In fact, he is my nephew.”
“I am not!” stated Pen.
His eyes looked down into hers, with so much laughter in them that she felt her heart turn over. “Aren’t you?” he said. “Well, if you are not my nephew, brat, what are you?”
Aghast, she choked: “Richard, you—you— traitor!”
Even the kindly man in the corner seemed to feel that Sir Richard’s question called for an answer. Pen looked helplessly round, encountered nothing but glances either of disapproval, or of interrogation, and raised her wrathful eyes to Sir Richard’s face.
“Well?” said Sir Richard inexorably. “Are you my nephew?”
“Yes—no! Oh, you are abominable! You wouldn’t dare!”