“And now she is married to mine. Does that make her more my aunt or yours?”
“Ah, but she is my mother’s cousin as well.”
“That gives you the advantage, certainly.”
“But does it make Count Mortimer my uncle? I am so anxious to know that, and I am afraid to ask papa. He—he doesn’t——”
“Care for the connection? None of you do, I suppose. But I think you’ll like it better when you know my uncle.”
“Like it? I wish him to be my uncle!” she cried. “You do not know; but since he came to Molzau for my sister Theudelinde’s wedding, four years ago, and I heard all about him, I have—oh, I do not know the English word—geschwärmt for him. What is it that you do to a great poet, or painter, or any great man?”
“Admire him?” suggested Usk.
“Oh no, no! You admire a horse. Have you no sisters? Did they not set up some hero’s photograph and place flowers in front of it, and watch for any mention of his name, and long to obtain his autograph?”
“Now you mention it, I believe Phil—that’s my sister—did have a severe attack of hero-worship some years ago. It was about the time Lord Williams came home from Africa.”
“Lord Williams? Oh, I know—Bills!”