“Would you like me to say I fell downstairs?” I suggested innocently. Uncle George fidgeted. “I don’t want you to tell a lie,” he made answer, which was a pretty big one for him. “Oh, I don’t mind,” I observed, pleasantly. Uncle George considered this. “I suppose there’s times, maybe, when it’s best not to tell all the truth,” he brought out lamely. “This is one when I should think it would be best not to tell any of it,” I replied. Uncle George was silent. I was not letting him off particularly easily. “There must, however, be two lies told,” I pursued. “The first by me, and the second by you, in a letter saying you can’t take me back after the holidays――that you haven’t room――any reason you like.” “But won’t you come back?” asked Uncle George, dolefully. “You were always quite comfortable, quite happy till――till this accident. And it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been knocking George about. I don’t know what he had done on you.” “I was never happy,” I said impatiently. “Either you or Aunt Margaret will have to write as I say, or I’ll tell my father exactly what happened. This accident, as you call it, very nearly did for me: and it’s only one thing out of a lot.” “Your poor aunt wants to come and tell you how sorry she is.” “My poor aunt needn’t bother. I know exactly how sorry she is. If it had been the ceiling that had fallen on me and killed me outright, I don’t fancy she’d have minded much――except for the mess.” Uncle George regarded me mournfully. “You’re very unforgiving,” he said. “I know you’ve a right to say hard things, but――――” It seemed to me that this was going a bit too far. “What do you mean by unforgiving?” I asked. “Haven’t I promised not to tell?” “It’s not that,” said Uncle George. “What is it then? Do you want me to sacrifice myself simply that you may make so much a week out of me? Don’t you know that Aunt Margaret has always hated me like poison? Don’t you know she is pretty constantly under the influence of whatever it is she takes, though you speak as if this were the first time? I’m not such a fool that I can’t see what’s going on. She’s always prying about my things and reading my letters. Besides, in the very beginning, you know as well as I do that I came to live here expecting to have a room to myself and not to be stuck with George.” Uncle George did not reply, but he looked as he sat there, with his gray head bent, the picture of dejection. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, Uncle George, for you’ve been always very kind and decent to me, and if there was no one here but you and Alice I would come back certainly. But as it is, I can’t; I really can’t. I wanted to leave at Christmas, only my father wouldn’t let me.”