Andrew folded the letter so that the last page came on top and handed it to him with the newspaper. Whitney carefully read the first column in the paper before he looked up. He wanted to understand the situation, and Andrew was not good at explaining.
"I don't quite get the drift of things," he said. "First of all, who's Elsie Woodhouse?"
"In a way, she's like Dick's sister; they were brought up together and Elsie always tried to take care of him—though she's really no relation. Dick is my cousin."
Whitney nodded and tried to be patient.
"Do you want to go home because she's anxious about the fellow?" he asked.
"It's rather complicated," Andrew answered with some hesitation. "You see, Dick's father raised me, and I always thought, in his way, he was fond of me."
Whitney found the workings of his companion's mind more interesting than the particulars about his relatives. Andrew was sometimes slow, but one could rely on his doing the right thing in the end.
"And Elsie?" Whitney suggested. "Did he raise her too?"
"Oh, no. When he died, Dick's mother soon married again, a man called Staffer; clever fellow, but I never quite trusted him. Then she died, and Staffer was left in charge of Appleyard until Dick came of age. He brought his sister there, Mrs. Woodhouse, a widow; and Elsie's her daughter. Dick and Elsie were both quite young then, but from the beginning Elsie made it her business to take care of Dick."
"You like her," said Whitney, noticing a certain tenderness in his companion's voice.