"You know my father died long before I ever knew you." "Yes; that's what YOU used to say, Clarence, but papa says it isn't so." But seeing the boy's wondering eyes fixed on her with a troubled expression, she added quickly, "Oh, then, he IS your cousin!" "Well, I think I ought to know," said Clarence, with a smile, that was, however, far from comfortable, and a quick return of his old unpleasant recollections of the Peytons.

"Why, I was brought to him by one of his friends." And Clarence gave a rapid boyish summary of his journey from Sacramento, and Flynn's discovery of the letter addressed to Silsbee.
But before he had concluded he was conscious that Susy was by no means interested in these details, nor in the least affected by the passing allusion to her dead father and his relation to Clarence's misadventures.

With her rounded chin in her hand, she was slowly examining his face, with a certain mischievous yet demure abstraction.
"I tell you what, Clarence," she said, when he had finished, "you ought to make your cousin get you one of those sombreros, and a nice gold-braided serape.

They'd just suit you.

And then--then you could ride up and down the Alameda when we are going by." "But I'm coming to see you at--at your house, and at the convent," he said eagerly.