The sun went back on
the dial of his life for thirty years or thereabouts, and Alan
himself seemed to stand before him. Alan, as he used to burst in for
his holidays from Winchester! After all, this pink rosebud was his
eldest son's only daughter.
Chestnut hair, pearly teeth, she was Alan all over.
Sir Anthony bowed his most respectful bow, with old-fashioned
courtesy.
"And what can I do for you, young lady?" he asked in his best
professional manner.
"Grandfather," the girl broke out, blushing red to the ears, but
saying it out none the less; "Grandfather, I'm your granddaughter,
Dolores Barton."
The old man bowed once more, a most deferential bow. Strange to
say, when he saw her, this claim of blood pleased him.
"So I see, my child," he answered. "And what do you want with me?"
"I only knew it last night," Dolly went on, casting down those blue
eyes in her shamefaced embarrassment. "And this morning . . . I've
come to implore your protection."
"That's prompt," the old man replied, with a curious smile, half
suspicious, half satisfied.
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