"Very good, sir," replied the man, and hesitated at the door.
"Well, Scanlan?" inquired his master.
"General Davidson, sir,—and the lady, sir,—will that be hall?"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Pollin, "I'd forgotten the general. You don't mind old Davidson, do you, Molly?"
"I'm sure I do not know. I have never met him," replied Molly.
"That will be all," said Mr. Pollin to the man, and, as soon as the door closed, he turned to Molly and said: "Now, my dear, we have just an hour before that old bore Davidson, with his everlasting plans of battles, gets here, so we had better make the most of our time." He stirred the fire, and then seated himself close to his niece. He looked at her nervously, and several times opened his mouth as if to speak, but always seemed to think better of it before he had made a sound.
"Why, what on earth is the matter?" cried Miss Travers, staring with wide eyes.
Mr. Pollin braced himself, and swallowed hard. "My dear," he said, "I want to confess that I promised your mother that I would speak to you about—about—"
"About what, uncle?" She breathed fast, and her face was anxious.
"Dash it all, about some silly rot!" cried the old gentleman, "and, by gad, I don't intend to mention it. You are quite old enough to look after your own affairs,—of that nature,—and you are much wiser than the people who wish to look after them for you."