"Suspects me?—of what, pray?" exclaimed the lady, patting my nephew's cheek.
"Budge!" said I—I feel that my voice rose nearly to a scream—"Budge, I must beg of you to respect the sanctity of confidential communications."
"What is it, Budge?" persisted Miss Mayton. "You know the old adage, Mr. Burton: 'Children and fools speak the truth.' Of what does he suspect me, Budge?"
"'Taint sus-pect at all," said Budge, "it's es-spect."
"Expect?" echoed Miss Mayton.
"No, not 'ex,' it's es-spect. I know all about it, 'cause I asked him. Es-spect is what folks do when they think you're nice, and like to talk to you, and——"
"Respect is what the boy is trying to say, Miss Mayton," I interrupted, to prevent what I feared might follow. "Budge has a terrifying faculty for asking questions, and the result of some of them, this morning, was my endeavor to explain to him the nature of the respect in which gentlemen hold ladies."
"Yes," continued Budge, "I know all about it. Only Uncle Harry don't say it right. What he calls espect I calls love."
There was an awkward pause—it seemed an age. Another blunder, and all on account of those dreadful children. I could think of no possible way to turn the conversation; stranger yet, Miss Mayton could not do so, either. Something must be done—I could at least be honest, come what would—I would be honest.
"Miss Mayton," said I, hastily, earnestly, but in a very low tone. "Budge is a marplot, but he is a truthful interpreter for all that. But whatever my fate may be, please do not suspect me of falling suddenly in love for a holiday's diversion. My malady is of some months' standing. I——"