“Yes. You play tennis; Auntie says so. Will you play to-morrow morning as my partner?”
“But I play an atrocious game and—”
“So do I. We shall match beautifully. Thank you, Uncle Hosea.”
Once more she turned to go, and again she turned.
“Is there anything else you wish me to do, Uncle Hosea?” she asked.
The repetition repeated was too much.
“Yes,” I declared. “Stop calling me Uncle Hosea. I'm not your uncle.”
“Oh, I know that; but you have told everyone that you were, haven't you?”
I had, unfortunately, so I could make no better reply than to state emphatically that I didn't like the title.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “But 'Mr. Knowles' sounds so formal, don't you think. What shall I call you? Never mind, perhaps I can think while I am dressing for dinner. I will see you at dinner, won't I. Au revoir, and thank you again for the racket—Cousin Hosy.”