“I can’t say that it’s much my business, uncle; except out of respect for our family. She’s your daughter; but she’s also my cousin.”
Sir George let the despatch fall flat upon the table; readjusted his spectacles upon his nose; and fixed upon his nephew a look of earnest inquiry.
“What is this you’re talking of, my lad?” he asked, after a period passed in scrutinising the countenance of young Scudamore.
“I’m almost ashamed to tell you, uncle. Something you might have seen as easily as I.”
“But I haven’t. What is it?”
“Well, you’ve admitted a man into your house who does not appear to be a gentleman.”
“What man?”
“This Captain Maynard, as you call him.”
“Captain Maynard not a gentleman! What grounds have you for saying so? Be cautious, nephew. It’s a serious charge against any guest in my house—more especially one who is a stranger. I have good reasons for thinking he is a gentleman.”
“Dear uncle, I should be sorry to differ from you, if I hadn’t good reasons for thinking he is not.”