“My father’s name.” She became suddenly confidential. “He was a contractor; plenty of money while he lived. We had a house a little way out of London. He drove to his office every day. Two servants, a governess for me, a dinner party now and then. When I grew up, a little shopping, a little housework in an elegant way—arranging flowers, setting the maids by the ears. You know. Thousands of girls live like that and are bored to death. He died bankrupt; mother died of a broken heart, or broken fortunes, poor dear. I was thrown on the world—the creditors took everything. That is five years ago.”
He had been listening attentively, watching every shade and shine upon her face, admiring her vivacious, half tragic gestures—not understanding her in the least. The genteel life she so scornfully sketched was unknown to him.
“You were the only one?”
“What?”
She lifted her head, rearing it almost, like an aggressive serpent.
“You were my Uncle John’s only child?”
“No.” The word came full and rounded from her mouth, and the eyes behind the curtaining lashes were somber. “There was a—a brother. He has gone away, a long voyage. He has a passion for the sea.”
“That settles it. Another brother of my mother’s, Uncle Thomas, was a captain in the navy. He ran away before he was sixteen; nothing would stop him. Every Crisp has a salt drop in his veins.”
“Father, in his most prosperous days, had a little yacht.”
“There you are again! The Crisp love for water. Well! I believe from my heart that we really are cousins—Cousin Pamela. I shall tell the folk hereabout that I advertised for my kin—Uncle John or his children—and that you, seeing the advertisement, answered. That will make things easy for us both. And now, cousin”—his voice was meaning, and his handsome open face became roguish and bold—“I ought to kiss you.”