"Oh, I—I—hardly know!" said downright Bell, unused to even the whitest fib. She really could not, perhaps, have put into words the feeling that had kept her silent about the scene of the night before.
"But that is no matter!" she went on. "What else is the matter with him, besides height? He can't help that, you know."
"I don't suppose he can. But he can help making up to Hilda, Bell, and he'd better!" savagely. "Only it's too late now, I suppose!" despondently. "Why on earth the fellow couldn't stay and fiddle over there, where he's wanted,—don't admire their taste, by the way!—instead of coming over here to spoil everything, is more than I know!"
"Horrid shame!" murmured Phil, taking careful aim with a pebble at an innocent cat that was crossing the lawn.
Bell struck his hand up.
"I won't have the cats teased, Phil! And as for all this nonsense—"
"It isn't nonsense!" cried both boys, earnestly.
"I tell you we met them just now," Gerald went on, "and when he saw us, he looked black as thunder, and had hardly manners to speak to us. Perfectly odious; wasn't he, Ferguson?"
"Absolutely!" echoed Phil.
"And you were very cordial to him, of course?" said Bell. "You let him see that you were glad to meet him, and that as Hilda's warm friends you were anxious to welcome her cousin cordially, and to show him all the courtesy you could?"