“No, you haven’t. You are now my young cousin, and we are wholly committed to a life of adventure. What did you say your name was?”
“Penelope Creed. Most people call me Pen, but I ought to have a man’s name now.”
“Pen will do very well. If it occasions the least comment, you will say that it is spelt with two N’s. You were named after that Quaker fellow.”
“Oh, that is a very good idea! What shall I call you?”
“Richard.”
“Richard who?”
“Smith—Jones—Brown.”
She was engaged in transferring her belongings from the Paisley shawl to the cloak-bag. “You don’t look like any of those. What shall I do with this shawl?”
“Leave it,” replied Sir Richard, gathering up some gleaming scraps of guinea-gold hair from the carpet, and casting them to the back of the fireplace. “Do you know, Pen Creed, I fancy you have come into my life in the guise of Providence?”
She looked up enquiringly. “Have I?” she said doubtfully.