“My name—is Edward l’Estrange,” he said. Then he looked anxiously at the others, but no one gave any sign of having heard the name before and he appeared to breathe a sigh of relief.
“There is this difference between them,” announced Billie, who, when she had observed a person’s face, usually finished by looking at their chests and shoulders exactly as her father would have done, “Edward Paxton is not as broad as Edward l’Estrange, and he is much paler.”
“It’s because Edward’s always ill,” said his sister, in a half-accusing tone. “He has headaches and pains and side aches. Grandmamma says he is determined to be delicate.”
Edward Paxton flushed painfully.
“Is that why you wear those smoked glasses?” demanded Billie.
“Yes, the glare on the water gives me a headache.”
“How dark and hideous everything must look,” went on Billie. “The sky must always be cloudy and the water gray and the woods a dusty green. I should be very unhappy, I’m sure, if I had to wear them. One could never see anything as it really was.”
“He doesn’t,” cried his sister. “He’s always sad and sorrowful and quiet—and—and moody, too, Edward, you know you are.”
“I’m not,” exclaimed her brother. “Or rather if I am, I suppose I have enough to make me so. Grandmamma——” he began, and then paused and bit his lips.
There was an awkward silence. The others recalled the terrible grandmamma who wielded her gold-headed cane with almost as much freedom as an ancient warrior did his battle-axe. Miss Campbell felt sorry for the boy and girl. No doubt the fierce old lady led them a wretched life.