Uncle Samuel was in his blue painting smock. Whereas the other members of the family were so well known to Jeremy that they were almost like the wallpaper or the piano, Uncle Samuel’s appearance was always new and exciting. With his chubby face, the grey hair that stood up rather thinly about his crimson pate, his fat stumpy body, ironical blue eyes and little, rather childish, mouth, he always seemed nearer to Jeremy than the others—younger, more excitable, more easily surprised. He had the look of an old baby, Jeremy sometimes thought. He looked at Jeremy consideringly. “Got anything to do?” “No.” “Come on into the studio.” “Oh, may I?” “Well, I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you. . . . Yes, you may bring the dog.” Jeremy’s excitement was intense. Once, long ago, his uncle had said that he might go into the studio, but he had never dared to venture. He walked carefully like Agag. The door was opened, a curtain pulled aside. A long, empty room with wide high windows overlooking meadow and hill, a low bookcase running the length of the room, a large sofa with cushions, two rugs, some pictures with their faces to the wall, some other pictures hanging, funny ones, a girl with a green face, a house all crooked, a cow (or was it a horse?) . . . Uncle Samuel went to the sofa and sat down. He called Jeremy over to him and pulled him in between his knees. “Been having a row?” he said. “Yes,” said Jeremy. “Kicked your father?” “Yes.” “What was it all about?” Jeremy told him. Uncle Samuel listened attentively, his eyes no longer ironical. He put his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, and the boy, feeling the unexpected kindness, burst into tears. The misery of the last week overflowed from his heart. “I didn’t—know. . . . I didn’t really—I wanted to give them the things—I wasn’t wicked.” The man bent down and picked the boy up and held him tight. Then he talked to him. “Look here, you’ve not got to mind this. You were wrong, too, you know. Your father was right from _his_ way of seeing things. His way isn’t yours, that’s all. When you get older you’ll find people often don’t see things the way you do, won’t like the work you’re proudest of, simply won’t understand it. There are as many different opinions as can be in this old world, and you’ve simply got to face it. You’ve just got to be ready for anything—not to get angry and kick. Don’t let yourself be too sensitive. You’ll go up and you’ll go down, and when you’re up people will say you ought to be down, and when you’re down there’ll be a few kind souls will help you up again. Misunderstood! Why, bless my soul, you’ll be misunderstood a million times before you’re done. If you’ve got work you like, a friend you can trust and a strong stomach you’ll have enough to be thankful for.