There was an embarrassed silence.  Then Mary faced the situation boldly.

“Uncle,” she said, “you are asking my advice.  Is that it?”

“If there’s any advice you can give, for God’s sake let’s have it.  But I don’t know as you can make black white.”

“Selina and Louise are good girls enough,” she said, “but they are a little spoilt, and they are a little limited in their ideas.  A town like this often has that effect.  Take them abroad, uncle, for a year, or, better still, if you can find the right person, get a companion for them—­a lady—­and let her live in the house.”

“That’s sound!” he answered.  “I’ll do it.”

“And about their clothes, uncle.  Take them up to London, go to one of the best places, and leave the people to make their things.  Don’t let them interfere.  Down here they’ve got to choose for themselves.  They wouldn’t care about taking advice here, but in London they’d probably be content to leave it.  Take them up to town for a fortnight.  Stay at one of the best hotels, the Berkeley or the Carlton, and let them see plenty of nice people.  And don’t be discouraged, uncle.”

“Where the devil did you get your common-sense from?” he inquired, fiercely.  “Your mother hadn’t got it, and I’ll swear your father hadn’t.”

She laughed heartily.

“Above all, be firm with them, uncle,” she said.  “Put your foot down, and stick to it.  They’ll obey you.

“Obey me?  Good Lord, I’ll make ’em,” Mr. Bullsom declared, vigorously.  “Mary, you’re a brick.  I feel quite cheerful.  And, remember this, my girl.  I shall make you an allowance, but that’s nothing.  Come to me when you want a bit extra, and if ever the young man turns up, then I’ve got a word or two to say.  Mind, I shall only be giving you your own.  My will’s signed and sealed.”

She kissed him fondly.

“You’re a good sort, uncle,” she said.  “And now will you tell me what you think of this letter?”

“Read it to me, dear,” he said.  “My eyes aren’t what they were.”

She obeyed him.

“41, BUCKLESBURY, London, E. C.

“Dear madam,

“We have received a communication from our agents at Montreal, asking us to ascertain the whereabouts of Miss Mary Scott, daughter of Richard Scott, at one time a resident in that city.

“We believe that you are the young lady in question, and if you will do us the favour of calling at the above address, we may be able to give you some information much to your advantage.

“We are, dear madam,

“Yours respectfully,

“Jones and Lloyd.”

Mr. Bullsom stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“Sounds all right,” he remarked.  “Of course you’ll go.  But I always understood that your father’s relations were as poor as church mice.”

“Poorer, uncle!  His father—­my grandfather, that is—­was a clergyman with barely enough to live on, and his uncle was a Roman Catholic priest.  Both of them have been dead for years.”