"Well—" It was as if he took his question back, conceding its enormity. He leaned forward now in his balancing, and lowered his voice to the extreme of confidence.
"Have you any idea how far she's gone?" (It was as near as he could get to it.)
"She's gone as far as Paris," said Ranny, with a grin. "Is that far enough for you?"
Mr. Randall leaned back as with relief, and stopped balancing. "It might be worse," he said, "far worse."
"How d'you mean—worse? Seems to me about as bad as it can be."
"It's unfortunate—but not so serious as if—" He paused profoundly. He was visibly considering it from some private and personal point of view. "She might have stayed in London. She might have carried on at your own door or here in Wandsworth."
His nephew, Randall, was now regarding him with an attention the nature of which he entirely misconceived. It gave him courage to speak out—his whole mind and no mincing matters.
"If I were you, Randall, the first thing I should do is to get rid of that young woman—that Dymond girl—" He put up his hand to ward off the imminent explosion. "Yes, yes, I know all you've got to say, my boy, but it won't do. She's a young girl—"
"She's as good as they make them," said Ranny, glaring at him, "as good as my mother there."
"Yes, yes, yes. I know all about it. But you mustn't have her there."