“I don't know if parents and guardians count for much in these degenerate days,” said Ransford. “But—I won't have him annoying you. And—I suppose it has come to annoyance?”
“It's very annoying to be asked three times by a man whom you've told flatly, once for all, that you don't want him, at any time, ever!” she answered. “It's—irritating!”
“All right,” said Ransford quietly. “I'll speak to him. There's going to be no annoyance for you under this roof.”
The girl gave him a quick glance, and Ransford turned away from her and picked up his letters.
“Thank you,” she said. “But—there's no need to tell me that, because I know it already. Now I wonder if you'll tell me something more?”
Ransford turned back with a sudden apprehension.
“Well?” he asked brusquely. “What?”
“When are you going to tell me all about—Dick and myself?” she asked. “You promised that you would, you know, some day. And—a whole year's gone by since then. And—Dick's seventeen! He won't be satisfied always—just to know no more than that our father and mother died when we were very little, and that you've been guardian—and all that you have been!—to us. Will he, now?”
Ransford laid down his letters again, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, squared his shoulders against the mantelpiece. “Don't you think you might wait until you're twenty-one?” he asked.
“Why?” she said, with a laugh. “I'm just twenty—do you really think I shall be any wiser in twelve months? Of course I shan't!”