Raymond was quickly assuming the charms of ownership.
"She always has been," snapped Mrs. Tweksbury, "an unconscious offering. Where is her gad-about sister?"
"I forget—out West somewhere, I believe."
"What is she doing?"
"The Lord knows. I got a very disagreeable impression of her. I didn't do much questioning—Nancy was on the defensive. She adores her sister."
"Bless the child! I have an unpleasant remembrance of the girl, too." Mrs. Tweksbury smiled grimly. "She was always a pert chit, and I believe she is like her disreputable father—you know about him, Ken?"
"Yes—something. Miss Fletcher mentioned him—she says she wants to have a talk later on. But what do I care, Aunt Emily?"
"I should rather like to know, myself." Mrs. Tweksbury sniffed scandal. "I never have been sure about him, but I know he was socially above reproach. If he personally went wrong it is deplorable, but, Ken, if he had his roots in good soil instead of mud, it isn't fatal."
"Bosh! Aunt Emily."
"Bosh! all you want to, boy. It's easy to bosh when you're on the safe side—but neither you nor I can afford to ignore the difference."