“And you can jest, Adrian!” his aunt reproached him.  “But I will not be beaten.  I know—­I am firmly convinced that no law would ever allow a boy to disgrace his family and ruin himself like that, and nothing shall persuade me that it is so.  Now, tell me, Brandon, and pray do speak in answer to my questions, and please to forget you are dealing with a woman.  Can my nephew be rescued from the consequences of his folly?  Is what he has done legitimate?  Is he bound for life by what he has done while a boy?

“Well—­a,” Brandon breathed through his teeth.  “A—­hm! the matter’s so very delicate, you see, Helen.”

“You’re to forget that,” Adrian remarked.

“A—­hm! well!” pursued Brandon.  “Perhaps if you could arrest and divide them before nightfall, and make affidavit of certain facts"...

“Yes?” the eager woman hastened his lagging mouth.

“Well...hm! a...in that case...a...  Or if a lunatic, you could prove him to have been of unsound mind."...

“Oh! there’s no doubt of his madness on my mind, Brandon.”

“Yes! well! in that case...  Or if of different religious persuasions"...

“She is a Catholic!” Mrs. Doria joyfully interjected.

“Yes! well! in that case...objections might be taken to the form of the marriage...  Might be proved fictitious...  Or if he’s under, say, eighteen years"...

“He can’t be much more,” cried Mrs. Doria.  “I think,” she appeared to reflect, and then faltered imploringly to Adrian, “What is Richard’s age?”

The kind wise youth could not find it in his heart to strike away the phantom straw she caught at.

“Oh! about that, I should fancy,” he muttered; and found it necessary at the same time to duck and turn his head for concealment.  Mrs. Doria surpassed his expectations.

“Yes I well, then...”  Brandon was resuming with a shrug, which was meant to say he still pledged himself to nothing, when Clare’s voice was heard from out the buzzing circle of her cousins:  “Richard is nineteen years and six months old to-day, mama.”

“Nonsense, child.”

“He is, mama.”  Clare’s voice was very steadfast.

“Nonsense, I tell you.  How can you know?”

“Richard is one year and nine months older than me, mama.”

Mrs. Doria fought the fact by years and finally by months.  Clare was too strong for her.

“Singular child!” she mentally apostrophized the girl who scornfully rejected straws while drowning.

“But there’s the religion still!” she comforted herself, and sat down to cogitate.

The men smiled and looked vacuous.