"Fourteen and--why,
God bless my soul, you must be eighteen!"
"I am nineteen years old, Mr. Pengarth," the young lady announced with
dignity. "Perhaps you will be kind enough to treat me now--er--with a
little more respect."
"Nineteen!" he repeated vaguely. "God bless my--nineteen years old?"
"I consider myself," she repeated, "of age. I have come to see you
about my affairs!"
"Yes, yes!" he said. "Quite natural."
"For four years," she continued, "I seem to have been supported by
some relative of my father, who has never vouchsafed to send me a
single line or message except through you. I have written letters
which I have given to you to forward. There has been no reply. Have
you sent on those letters, Mr. Pengarth?"
"Why certainly, my dear, certainly!"
"Can you tell me how it is that I have had no answer?"
Mr. Pengarth coughed. He was not at all comfortable.
"Your guardian, Miss Juliet, is somewhat eccentric," he answered, "and
he is a very busy man."
"Can you tell me, Mr. Pengarth, exactly what relation he is to me?"
There was a dead silence. Mr. Pengarth found the room suddenly warm,
and mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.
"I have no authority," he declared, "to answer any questions."
"Then can you tell me of your own accord," she said, "why there is all
this mystery? Why may I not know who he is, why may I not write to
him? Am I anything to be ashamed of, that he will not trust me even
with his name? I am tired of accepting so much and not being able to
offer even my thanks in return.
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