And stick to it I did. From that day—the day of our drive to Wrayton—on through those wonderful summer days in which she and Hephzy and I were together at the rectory, not once did I attempt to remonstrate with my “niece” concerning her presumption in inflicting her presence upon us or in spending her money, as she thought it—our money as I knew it to be—as she saw fit. Having learned and relearned my lesson—namely, that I lacked the courage to tell her the truth I had so often declared must be told, having shifted the responsibility to Hephzy's shoulders, having admitted and proclaimed myself, in that respect at least, a yellow dog, I proceeded to take life as I found it, as yellow dogs are supposed to do.
And, having thus weakly rid myself of care and responsibility, I began to enjoy that life. To enjoy the freedom of it, and the novelty of the surroundings, and the friendship of the good people who were our neighbors. Yes, and to enjoy the home life, the afternoons on the tennis court or the golf course, the evenings in the drawing-room, the “teas” on the lawn—either our lawn or someone else's—the chats together across the dinner-table; to enjoy it all; and, more astonishing still, to accept the companionship of the young person who was responsible for our living in that way as a regular and understood part of that life.
Not that I understood the young person herself; no Bayport quahaug, who had shunned female companionship as I had for so long, could be expected to understand the whims and changing moods of a girl like Frances Morley. At times she charmed and attracted me, at others she tormented and irritated me. She argued with me one moment and disagreed the next. She laughed at Hephzy's and my American accent and idioms, but when Bayliss, Junior, or one of the curates ventured to criticize an “Americanism” she was quite as likely to declare that she thought it “jolly” and “so expressive.” Against my will I was obliged to join in conversations, to take sides in arguments, to be present when callers came, to make calls. I, who had avoided the society of young people because, being no longer young, I felt out of place among them, was now dragged into such society every day and almost every evening. I did not want to be, but Little Frank seemed to find mischievous pleasure in keeping me there.
“It is good for you,” she said, on one occasion, when I had sneaked off to my room and the company of the “British Poets.” “Auntie says you started on your travels in order to find something new to write about. You'll never find it in those musty books; every poem in them is at least seventy years old. If you are going to write of England and my people you must know something about those that are alive.”
“But, my dear young lady,” I said, “I have no intention of writing of your people, as you call them.”
“You write of knights and lords and ladies and queens. You do—or you did—and you certainly know nothing about THEM.”
I was quite a bit ruffled. “Indeed!” said I. “You are quite sure of that, are you?”
“I am,” decidedly. “I have read 'The Queen's Amulet' and no queen on earth—in England, surely—ever acted or spoke like that one. An American queen might, if there was such a thing.”
She laughed and, provoked as I was, I could not help laughing with her. She had a most infectious laugh.
“My dear young lady—” I began again, but she interrupted me.