There was no laugh, or even a smile from her. She gave a little start of surprise and in a very confused voice murmured: "Yes, I see." "My full name is Mr. Ned Dawkins and you're Louisa Dawkins my niece. Just call me 'Uncle Ned' and leave me to do the talking. We are touring this beautiful country and I've lost my luggage owing to the derned foolishness of the railroad officials here. And then when we've had a little bit of dinner you can tell me, if you like, why you've eloped and why you've got a down on me. Or if you don't like to, well, you needn't. Ah, here's the pub at last." He threw open the door and in a loud and cheerful voice cried: "Well, here we are, Louisa. Walk right in, my dear!" XXVIII THE RETURN His friends would scarcely have picked out Mr. Ned Cromarty of Stanesland as likely to make a distinguished actor, but they might have changed their opinion had they heard him breezily announce himself as Mr. Dawkins from Liverpool and curse the Scottish railways which had lost his luggage for him. It is true that the landlord looked at him a trifle askance and that the landlady and her maid exchanged a knowing smile when he ordered a room for his niece Louisa, but few people shut up in a little country inn with such a formidable looking, loud voiced giant, would have ventured to question his statements openly, and the equanimity of Mr. Dawkins remained undisturbed. "Sit right down, Louisa!" he commanded when dinner was served; and then, addressing the maid, "You needn't wait. We'll ring when we need you." But the moment she had gone he checked a strong expression with an effort. "Damn--confound it!" he cried. "I ought to have remembered to say grace! That would have given just the finishing touch to the Uncle Ned business. However, I don't think they've smelt any rats." Cicely smiled faintly and then her eyes fell and she answered nothing. Their only other conversation during dinner consisted in his expostulations on her small appetite and her low-voiced protests that she wasn't hungry. But when it was safely over, he pushed back his chair, crossed his knees, and began: "Now, Louisa, I'm going to take an uncle's privilege of lighting my pipe before I begin to talk, if you don't mind." He lit his pipe, and then suddenly dropping the role of uncle altogether, said gently: "I don't want to press you with any questions that you don't want to answer, but if you need a friend of any sort, size, or description, here I am." He paused for a moment and then asked still more gently: "Are you afraid of me?" For the first time she let her long-lashed eyes rest full on his face and in her low voice, she answered: "Partly afraid." "And partly what else?" "Partly puzzled--and partly ashamed." "Ashamed!" he exclaimed with a note of indignant protest. "Ashamed of what?" "The exhibition I've made of myself," she said, her voice still very low. "Well," he smiled, "that's a matter of opinion. But why are you afraid?"