“Miss Merton!” put in Rupert, leaning forward, curiously.
“Miss Merton! And jealous of dead-eyes, and wishing to get rid of us!” said Mr. Hardinge, smiling. “Pray who is Miss Merton? and who are the us? and what are the dead-eyes?”
Lucy was silent.
“Why, sir, I thought I wrote you all about the Mertons. How we met them in London, and then found them prisoners to Monsieur Le Compte; and that I intended to carry them to Canton, in the Crisis!”
“You told us some of this, certainly; but, though you may have written 'all about' a Major Merton, you forgot to tell us 'about all the Mertons. This is the first syllable I have ever had about a Miss Merton. How is it, girls—did Miles speak of any one but the Major, in his letter?”
“Not a syllable to me, sir, of any young lady, I can assure you,” replied Grace, laughing. “How was it to you, Lucy?”
“Of course he would not tell me that which he thought fit to conceal from his own sister,” said Lucy, in a low voice.
“It is odd I should have forgotten to mention her,” I cried, endeavouring to laugh it off. “Young men do not often forget to write about young ladies.”
“This Miss Merton is young, then, brother?”
“About your own age, Grace.”