"And why not, m'dear creature?" sighed uncle Jervas. "Dirt is of many kinds and Peregrine's is at least honest and healthy—"
"Cease, Sir Jervas, I pray!" cried my aunt with a flash of her fine black eyes. "Nevermore will I heed your perfidious counsels, nor the fatuous maunderings of graceless George. There stands my poor, misguided Peregrine—an object for angels to weep over, an innocent but a little while since—but now—now, alas—and you—both of you his undoing!"
"Pardon me, dear Aunt," said I hastily, "but there you are in error and do a monstrous injustice to my two generous uncles. Allow me to reiterate the statement I set down in my letter, that I left Merivale and you of my own accord; indeed my uncles would have stayed me, but I was determined to be gone for your sake, their sake and my own. Indeed, Aunt, so deep is my affection that I would see you truly happy, and knowing the deep and—and honourable sentiments my uncles have for you, I—I dreamed that they—that you—that one of them might have won your hand and—and you find that happiness which you have denied yourself on my account."
"Misguided boy!" murmured my aunt, lovely eyes abased, "Come, dear Peregrine, doubtless one of your uncles can find you a cloak to—to veil you from the curious vulgar—only let us be going, pray."
"Dear Aunt—where?"
"Back to Merivale, to your books, your paintings and my loving care."
"Not yet, Aunt. Ah, pray do not misunderstand me, but when I set out, it was with the purpose of doing better things than penning indifferent verse, or painting futile pictures—"
"Peregrine—nephew—do I hear aright?"
"You do, Aunt. I came out into the world to open the greatest book of all—the book of Life—to try to meet and know men and learn some day, perhaps, to be a man also and one you can honour. Instead of reading the actions of others, I intend to act a little myself—"
"Peregrine—cease!"