"Hello!" he said, in a loud jovial voice.
"Hello!" said we, and stared.
He had a strong, weather-beaten face, and wide-open light eyes, blue and wild as the sea.
"Hello, boy!" he repeated, looking at Angel, "What's your name?"
Now Angel was shy with strangers, so I usually answered questions.
"His name," I replied then, "is David Curzon but mother called him Angel, so we jus' keep on doing it."
"Oh," said the old gentleman. Then he fixed The Seraph with his eye. "What's the bantling's name?"
The Seraph, mightily confused at being called a bantling, giggled inanely, so I replied again.
"His name is Alexander Curzon, but mother called him The Seraph, so we jus' keep on doing it too."
"Um-hm," assented the old gentleman, "and you—what's your name?"
"John," I replied.
"Oh," he said, with an odd little smile, "and what do they keep on calling you?"
"Just John," I answered firmly, "nothing else."
"Who's your father?" came the next question.
"He's David Curzon, senior," I said proudly, "and he's in South America building a railroad an' Mrs. Handsomebody used to be his governess
[28]
