The conversation was at this point interrupted by the entrance of Uncle George, who appeared in the doorway, coming in from the street. He was a quiet, gray little man, and his movements always reminded me of those of a small dog in a strange room, wandering about, sniffing furtively at the legs of chairs and tables. He was timid, and when he spoke to you he rubbed his hands together with an affectation of cheerfulness that was directly contradicted by his dark, melancholy eyes. He had always struck me as being kind in his intentions, and I regretted that they had seemed to count for so little when opposed to Aunt Margaret’s. Uncle George was afraid of Aunt Margaret. He had an air of assuming that there was perfect harmony between them, but I had noticed that he rarely made a remark in her presence without glancing at her to see how she would take it. He reminded me of one of those old photographs one discovers at the backs of frames, their features almost obliterated from long exposure. His whole face, indeed, in its pale irregularity, had a suggestion of vagueness, as if it had been softly sponged over. His manner too――there was something in it which seemed to blur, to rub out, the impression of everything he said. His mind was lit by a kind of twilight in which the outlines of things were lost, in which opposites ceased to be contradictory, and impossibilities found a friendly shelter. And this twilight was reflected in his eyes, in their vague credulity, in the mildness of his glance, which peeped out innocently from under ridiculously fierce and bushy eyebrows. I knew Uncle George had failed in his business some years ago, and it was difficult to believe that he could ever be successful. His interest was not primarily in such things, but in the church, where he was a more perpetual figure than the minister, and in the church meetings, which he never missed, and which he sometimes even got up. I rather liked him; there was something about him that made it easy to talk to him; and though he was desperately religious, and held the same severe doctrines as my father, his nature was so little aggressive that in practice he was the most kindly and human creature in the world. “How are you?” he asked, shaking my hand. “We’re very glad to see you. How’s your father?” His left eye twitched slightly while he talked, giving him a comical appearance of winking very knowingly. “Quite well, thank you,” I answered. “Haven’t you been upstairs yet? Haven’t you seen your Aunt Margaret? Why didn’t you take him to see mother, George? Well, come along now, it’s time for tea. I think you might leave the shop, Miss Izzy, and come too――a special occasion, you know, a special occasion!” he laughed and patted me on the shoulder. “Thanks, I’ve had my tea already,” Miss Izzy returned, without enthusiasm. “And you’re having yours upstairs to-night,” she added, somewhat tartly, seeing him move in the wrong direction.