“What? Does NOT deny it?”
“Exactly! Like a perfectly straightforward gentleman,—and I think it's awfully fine of him,—though he has a perfectly good chance to put the thing on a—a fellow Potts, quite a doubtful character, he simply says, 'I know nothing about it. That looks like my signature. I can't remember doing this, don't know how I could have, but don't know a thing about it.' There you are, Uncle! And Mr. Dunn says he is quite incapable of it.”
“Mr. Dunn, eh? It seems you build somewhat broadly upon Mr. Dunn.”
The brown on Miss Bessie's check deepened slightly. “Well, Mr. Dunn is a splendid judge of men.”
“Ah; and of young ladies, also, I imagine,” said Sir Archibald, pinching her cheek.
It may have been the pinch, but the flush on her cheek grew distinctly brighter. “Don't be ridiculous, Uncle! He's just a boy, a perfectly splendid boy, and glorious in his game, but a mere boy, and—well, you know, I've arrived at the age of discretion.”
“Quite true!” mused her uncle. “Thirty last birthday, was it? How time does—!”
“Oh, you perfectly horrid uncle! Thirty indeed! Are you not ashamed to add to the already intolerable burden of my years? Thirty! No, Sir, not by five good years at least! There now, you've made me tell my age! You ought to blush for shame.”
Her uncle patted her firm, round cheek. “Never a blush, my dear! You bear even your advanced age with quite sufficient ease and grace. But now about this young Cameron,” he continued, assuming a sternly judicial tone.
“All I ask for him is a chance,” said his niece earnestly.