"It really seems so ridiculous," she explained at last desperately.
"Almost like a dream of fancy, and I hardly know how to put the situation
into words. If I were ten years younger I would almost be convinced
myself that it was all imaginary, yet everything I tell you is true. I
wonder if you will believe me?"

"Do not question that. I realize fully your earnestness."

"Yet I am going to test your credulity, just the same. But it would be
very foolish to venture as far as I have already, and then fail to go on.
So I'll tell you just what I know, and--and then leave it there. That
will be the best way. Those people you met last evening have nothing to
do with the story--none of them, at least, unless it may possibly be
Percival Coolidge. I am rather afraid of him; I always have been. I
believe he knows what all this trouble means, but I do not dare go
and talk with him about it. That is really what is the matter, I
suppose--there is no one I can talk to; they would only laugh at me. If
you do, I shall never forgive you."

"I am not at all so inclined. Tell me the story from the very beginning."

"Yes, I will. My father was Steven Coolidge, and was very wealthy. He did
not marry until late in life, and, I have reason to believe it was a
great disappointment to his brother Percival that a child was born.
Perhaps I ought not to make such a statement, but much has occurred to
impress me with his dislike--"

"He is your guardian?"