"Fred Lushington," he said; "that's my name."
"And who are you, if he's Fred Lushington?" she inquired, turning upon the unfortunate owner of the rooms.
"I'm Frederick Flushington," he stammered; "I'm sorry—but I can't help it!"
"Then you're not my nephew at all, sir!" cried the aunt.
"Thank you very much," said Flushington gratefully.
"You see," her real nephew was explaining to her, "there isn't much light on the staircase, and you must have thought his name over the door was 'F. Lushington,' so in you went, you know! The porter told me you'd been asking for me, so I looked in here to see whether you had been heard of, and here you are."
"But why didn't he tell me?" she said, for she was naturally annoyed to find that she had been pouring out all her pent-up affection over a perfect stranger, and she even had a dim idea that she had put herself in rather a ridiculous position, which of course made her feel very angry with Flushington. "Why couldn't he explain before matters had gone on so far?"
"How was I to know?" pleaded Flushington. "I dare say I have aunts in Australia, and you said you were one of them."
"But you asked after Uncle Samuel?" she said accusingly. "You must have had some object—I cannot say what—in encouraging my mistake; oh, I'm sure of it!"
"You told me to ask after him," said the unhappy Flushington; "I thought it was all right. What else was I to do?"