“We all care for you, Ted, really, very much—papa and mamma and Harold and I.”
“Well, that's very kind indeed of you; but then I suppose, as you're my relations, it's only Christian for you to care a little.”
“But people care who are not your relations—Miss Dorothy Allyn cares, and Albert.”
“How do you happen to know that.”
“Oh, because one day after Miss Allyn had been playing the organ in St. George's—and oh! doesn't she play beautifully!—we talked a little while on the Castle terrace, and we talked about you, and I asked her if you were ever so nice as Harold, because we couldn't help being a little disappointed in you, Cousin Ted, and she said yes, that you used to be every bit as nice, and if you had not been spoiled up at Oxford you would have turned out all right. She didn't say just those words, you know, but that was the meaning.” Ted was silent for a few moments, and when at last he spoke he said slowly, “Yes, I will come home, Marie-Celeste, as soon as I can; I promise.”
“Thank you, very much,” as though Ted had done her the greatest personal favor; and then, seeming to feel that their talk had come to a natural end, she asked quite casually, “Will you have the custard now?” and Ted remarking quite as casually, “Yes, thank you, I will,” she lifted the tray carefully into his lap. “Don't take very long to eat it, please,” she urged, “for fear Mrs. Hartley should wonder why I do not come hack and Ted obeyed orders with an alacrity rather menacing to his digestive powers.
“What shall I say to Mrs. Hartley?” Marie-Celeste asked with a puzzled frown.