“I know she would. No, we mustn't say anything to her. But—but you might say somethin' to him, mightn't you. Just hint around and find out what he does mean by bein' with her so much. Couldn't you do that, Hosy?”
I smiled. “Possibly I could, but I sha'n't,” I answered. “He would tell me to go to perdition, probably, and I shouldn't blame him.”
“Why no, he wouldn't. He thinks you're her uncle, her guardian, you know. You'd have a right to do it.”
I did not propose to exercise that right, and I said so, emphatically. And yet, before that week was ended, I did do what amounted to that very thing. The reason which led to this rash act on my part was a talk I had with Lady Kent Carey.
I met her ladyship on the putting green of the ninth hole of the golf course. I was playing a round alone. She came strolling over the green, dressed as mannishly as usual, but carrying a very feminine parasol, which by comparison with the rest of her get-up, looked as out of place as a silk hat on the head of a girl in a ball dress. She greeted me very affably, waited until I putted out, and then sat beside me on the bench under the big oak and chatted for some time.
The subject of her conversation was her nephew. She was, apparently, only too glad to talk about him at any time. He was her dead sister's child and practically the only relative she had. He seemed like a son to her. Such a charming fellow, wasn't he, now? And so considerate and kind to her. Everyone liked him; he was a great favorite.
“And he is very fond of you, Mr. Knowles,” she said. “He enjoys your acquaintance so much. He says that there is a freshness and novelty about you Americans which is quite delightfully amusing. This Miss—ah—Cahoon—your cousin, I think she is—is a constant joy to him. He never tires of repeating her speeches. He does it very well, don't you think. He mimics the American accent wonderfully.”
I agreed that the Heathcroft American accent was wonderful indeed. It was all that and more. Lady Carey went on.
“And this Miss Morley, your niece,” she said, poking holes in the turf with the tip of her parasol, “she is a charming girl, isn't she. She and Carleton are quite friendly, really.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “they seem to be.”