“That is rather a sweeping assertion; isn’t it, my dear?” asked Sir William, looking a trifle amused.
“It is the truth, Uncle Will, whatever else it may be,” she retorted, as she began to arrange her flowers in a vase on the table. “I am English to the backbone. I am thoroughly imbued with a love for my own people, and I shall never permit myself to draw disloyal comparisons.”
Rupert laughed outright as, in his mind, he placed the stooping figure and imbecile face of the halfwitted young lord beside the grandly developed form and frank, handsome countenance of his American friend.
“If you could place the two men side by side, I warrant you would be compelled to draw disloyal comparisons, in spite of your very praiseworthy patriotism, my fair cousin,” he said, a roguish twinkle in his eyes.
Lillian shot an angry glance at those last words; nothing annoyed her more than to be called “sister” or “cousin” by Rupert.
“I thank you for acknowledging that I am imbued with patriotism. I wonder what has become of yours,” she said, sarcastically.
“I have plenty of it, only I do not allow it to warp my judgment; I can appreciate both beauty and goodness whenever I find it, at home or abroad.”
“That is a self-evident fact,” remarked the young girl, dryly, and Rupert colored consciously.
“I give you credit for just as nice discrimination,” he retorted. “Wait till you see my friend, Webster, and if he doesn’t take the palm I shall ‘lose my guess,’ as the Yankees say.”
“That is American slang; they are all insufferably coarse,” Lillian returned, contemptuously.