"Oh!"—and Mamie's tone might have meant many things.
Lady Wantridge however, after all, easily overlooked it. "I only knew he was one of your odd Americans. That's why, when I heard yesterday here that he was up there awaiting your return, I didn't let that prevent me. I thought he might be. He certainly," her ladyship laughed, "IS."
"Yes, he's very American," Mamie went on in the same way.
"As you say, we are fond of you! Good-bye," said Lady Wantridge.
But Mamie had not half done with her. She felt more and more—or she hoped at least—that she looked strange. She was, no doubt, if it came to that, strange. "Lady Wantridge," she almost convulsively broke out, "I don't know whether you'll understand me, but I seem to feel that I must act with you—I don't know what to call it!—responsibly. He IS my brother."
"Surely—and why not?" Lady Wantridge stared. "He's the image of you!"
"Thank you!"—and Mamie was stranger than ever.
"Oh he's good-looking. He's handsome, my dear. Oddly—but distinctly!" Her ladyship was for treating it much as a joke.
But Mamie, all sombre, would have none of this. She boldly gave him up. "I think he's awful."
"He is indeed—delightfully. And where DO you get your ways of saying things? It isn't anything—and the things aren't anything. But it's so droll."