Uncle Edward had a way of condemning amusements that he didn’t care about by calling them "rather horrid" in a high thin voice that was far more condemnatory than the loudest fulminations of ordinary folk. Both hunting and shooting fell under this ban, and father liked both. As for fishing, Uncle Edward considered it the last resource of the mentally effete. Agricultural pursuit; he dismissed as "rather bucolic," and father farmed his own land and was extremely keen about everything that concerned it. Whist and Bridge—Bridge had just begun to be popular—he described as "dreadful games"; in fact, he "loathed all cards" except Patience. He was an expert in Patience, knowing quite forty different kinds; but he didn’t care for it unless at least three people watched him do it—which was dull for the selected three. He was a slim, small man, whom no mortal ever saw without his pince-nez—I believe he slept in them—with a pale, regularly-featured face, clean-shaven and legal-looking. He was delicate, took immense care of himself, and cultivated a large and healthy crop of dislikes. His sense of smell was painfully acute, and many quite ordinary odours, that do not offend less sensitively constituted mortals, were, to him, quite unbearable. Tobacco he could not endure. When father went to Elcombe House he had to creep away to the furthest point of the most distant garden to enjoy the smoke he could in no wise forgo. And when he returned, Uncle Edward always sniffed delicately and looked pained. A cut melon caused Uncle Edward to feel unwell, and I do believe if any one had eaten an apple in front of him he would have fainted outright. We arrived just before tea. Hermy and Vi met us in the hall and walked upstairs one on either side of Fiammetta, leaving me to follow by myself. They showed us our rooms—we had one each—and they left me in mine while they both accompanied Fiammetta to hers. After tea, presided over by Mademoiselle and Fräulein, Teddy suddenly demanded, "What have you done with the poet?" "What poet?" asked Fiammetta, for Teddy’s remark was evidently addressed to her, his round eyes never left her face. "The poet you belongs to. Where have you put him?" "I don’t," Fiammetta said rather huffily, "_put_ my father anywhere—do you?" "He’s not a poet," Teddy said, quite unmoved by her disapproval. "He’s only an or’nary father." "_Indeed_ he’s not," cried Viola; "he’s very _ex*traordinary—*most_ gifted," she added complacently. Teddy continued to stare at Fiammetta. "You haven’t _told_ me," he continued. "Told you _what_?" "—where he is." "He’s in London, if you mean my daddie." "_Must_ he stay there?" "Of course not, if he doesn’t want to." "Then why doesn’t he come here with you?" "Because he’s in London, I tell you." "Doesn’t he _want_ to come here?" "I suppose not," said Fiammetta, whose patience was nearly exhausted. "Do you always ask so many questions?"