With no helping recollection, with no means of comparison beyond a vague idea that his cousin might look like himself, Clarence stood hopelessly before him.

He had already made up his mind that he would have to go through the usual cross-questioning in regard to his father and family; he had even forlornly thought of inventing some innocent details to fill out his imperfect and unsatisfactory recollection.

But, glancing up, he was surprised to find that his elderly cousin was as embarrassed as he was, Flynn, as usual, masterfully interposed.
"Of course ye don't remember each other, and thar ain't much that either of you knows about family matters, I reckon," he said grimly; "and as your cousin calls himself Don Juan Robinson," he added to Clarence, "it's just as well that you let 'Jackson Brant' slide.

I know him better than you, but you'll get used to him, and he to you, soon enough.

At least, you'd better," he concluded, with his singular gravity.
As he turned as if to leave the room with Clarence's embarrassed relative--much to that gentleman's apparent relief--the boy looked up at the latter and said timidly-- "May I look at those books ?" His cousin stopped, and glanced at him with the first expression of interest he had shown.
"Ah, you read; you like books ?" "Yes," said Clarence.