After lunch, to my surprise, Dolly called
me away from the rest into the library. "Uncle Seymour," she said
to me--the dear child calls me Uncle Seymour, though of course I am
not in any way related to her--"_I_ have some photographs of Colonel
Clay, if you want them."
"_You_?" I cried, astonished. "Why, Dolly, how did you get them?"
For a minute or two she showed some little hesitation in telling me.
At last she whispered, "You won't be angry if I confess?" (Dolly is
just nineteen, and remarkably pretty.)
"My child," I said, "why _should_ I be angry? You may confide in me
implicitly." (With a blush like that, who on earth could be angry
with her?)
"And you won't tell Aunt Amelia or Aunt Isabel?" she inquired
somewhat anxiously.
"Not for worlds," I answered. (As a matter of fact, Amelia and
Isabel are the last people in the world to whom I should dream
of confiding anything that Dolly might tell me.)
"Well, I was stopping at Seldon, you know, when Mr. David Granton
was there," Dolly went on; "--or, rather, when that scamp pretended
he was David Granton; and--and--you won't be angry with me, will
you?--one day I took a snap-shot with my kodak at him and Aunt
Amelia!"
"Why, what harm was there in that?" I asked, bewildered. The wildest
stretch of fancy could hardly conceive that the Honourable David had
been _flirting_ with Amelia.
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