“It quite does credit to your imagination. By the way, boy, have you been in the habit of reading dime novels?”
“I never read one in my life, sir.”
“Then I think you would succeed in writing them. For a boy of sixteen, you certainly have a vivid imagination.”
“I quite agree with my husband,” said Mrs. Pitkin. “The boy's story is ridiculously improbable. I can't understand how he has the face to stand there and expect Uncle Oliver to swallow such rubbish.”
“I don't expect you to believe it, either of you,” said Philip manfully, “for you have never treated me fairly.”
“I think you will find, also, that my uncle is too sensible a man to credit it, also,” retorted Mrs Pitkin.
“Speak for yourself, Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter, who had waited intentionally to let his relatives express themselves. “I believe every word of Philip's story.”
“You do?” ejaculated Mrs. Pitkin, rolling her eyes and nodding her head, in the vain endeavor to express her feelings. “Really, Uncle Oliver, for a man of your age and good sense——”
“Thank you for that admission, Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter mockingly. “Go on.”
“I was about to say that you seem infatuated with this boy, of whom we know nothing, except from his own account. To my mind his story is a most ridiculous invention.”