“That Master Bob Garnet, just come from school, loves Amy Rosedew above Eoa, toffee, rock, or peppermint.” “Amy Rosedew is a minx,” answered the old man, hotly. “I offered to shake hands with her, when I met her on Wednesday, and was even going to kiss her, because she is my god–daughter, and—and—an uncommonly pretty girl, you know, and what do you think she said?” “Oh donʼt tell me, Uncle Cradock, if it was anything impudent. You know I could not stand it, thinking what I do of those Rosedews.” “She threw herself back with her great eyes flashing, and the colour in her cheeks dark crimson, and she said, ‘No, thank you. No contact for me with unnatural injustice!’ And she drew her frock around her, and swept away as if the road was not wide enough for both of us. Nice behaviour, was not it? And I fear her father endorses it.” “I know he does,” answered Georgie, whose face during that description had been a perfect study of horror contending with humour; “I know that Mr. Rosedew, one of the best men in the world, if, indeed, he is sincere—which others may doubt, but not I—he, poor man, having little perception, except of his own interest, has taken a most unfavourable view of everything we do here. Oh, I am so sorry. It almost makes one feel as if we must be in the wrong.” Beautiful Georgie sighed heavily, like a fair woman at a confessional. “His own interest, Georgie! Ourselves in the wrong! I donʼt quite understand you.” “As if we were harsh, you know, Uncle Cradock; when, Heaven be thanked, we have not concluded, as too, too many—— But, not to talk of that absurdity, and not to pain you, darling uncle, you must know what I meant about Mr. Rosedewʼs interest.” “No, indeed, I donʼt, Georgie. I donʼt see how John—I mean Mr. Rosedewʼs interest is at all involved in the matter.” “He had a daughter passing fair,” sang Mrs. Corklemore, without thinking. “Oh, uncle, I forgot; I am so light–headed and foolish, I forget everything now. It is Nowellʼs fault for worrying me, as he does every week, about income.” She passed her hand across her forehead, and swept the soft dark hair back, as if worldly matters were too many for her poor childish brain. Who could look at her without wishing that she really cared for herself, just a little? “I insist upon knowing what you mean, Georgie,” said Sir Cradock, frowning heavily, for he was not at all sentimental; “John Rosedewʼs daughter is Amy; and Amy, I know, is perfectly honest, though as obstinate as the devʼ—hem, I beg your pardon; I mean that Amy is very obstinate, as well as exceedingly bigoted, and I might almost say insolent.” “Oh no; I can never believe that, Uncle Cradock, even upon your authority.” In the heat of truth, Mrs. Corklemore stood up and faced Sir Cradock. “But I tell you she is, Georgie. Donʼt try to defend her. No young woman of eighteen ought to have spoken as she did to me when I met her last Wednesday. ‘Outrageous’ is the mildest word I can use to describe her manner.”