"Because he happens to be my mother's brother. My name is Hampton—Reginald Hampton."
There was silence for some time; then—
"You should have told me that before," said the girl, in an aggrieved tone.
"I don't see that we are responsible for parental quarrels," responded the other, warmly. "My mother married the wrong man, from Colonel Currie's point of view, and they have sworn eternal enmity. But how should that affect us? By Jove, we're cousins! To think that I have to thank the friskiness of my balloon for getting to know you."
Another silence.
"I hope father won't come home while you're here," cried the girl, suddenly. "He's never seen you, but you may be like the family, and it is not a likeness one can easily mistake. Have you a peculiar little dent in the middle of an otherwise straight nose?"
The query was advanced with an eagerness ludicrously at variance with the difference of their respective situations. It seemed—as Charles Lamb said of humorous letters to distant lands—as though eagerness must grow so stale before it reached the summit of this big pear tree.
"Yes, I have," answered Hampton, laughing.
"Then your fate is sealed. Father may return at any moment, and you really musn't come down into the garden."
"But I'm awfully hungry," said Mr. Hampton, plaintively.