My uncle talked incessantly. The more agitated and dispirited I became, the more he plied me with his recollections, with stories of his doings in his young days, of actors and authors, of noble lords and needy parasites. Whether it was that he was spoiled in my esteem by the outrageous behaviour of his daughter and servant, or that I regarded him as heading a conspiracy against my peace of mind, I did not find half so much to like in him as I had at Grove End. He, it is true, could not see O’Twist’s behaviour, as the rude creature stood behind his chair; and queer as his daughter’s manners were, I could not reasonably expect him to chide her before me. But these considerations gave me no encouragement. Now and then he would stay his monologue to ask Theresa for a date or a name, and she answered him readily enough; but to _my_ questions and remarks she seldom vouchsafed a longer answer than yes or no. Shortly after the dessert was placed upon the table she left the room, and to my great relief was followed by O’Twist. Vexed as I was, my politeness would not suffer me to make any comments on her behaviour. Had her father questioned me I should have been candid enough; but throughout our after-dinner chat he never mentioned her name, but confined his remarks entirely to books and pictures, or told stories, over which I should have roared as heartily as he, perhaps, had I been in a better temper. When we had smoked our cigars out, he invited me to see his grounds. I consented, having made up my mind to convert myself into a perfectly passive agent for him and his daughter to do what they chose with, whilst I remained at Thistlewood, which, I registered a secret vow, should not be for long. He peeped into the drawing-room on passing across the hall, and, seeing his daughter, entered and called to me, “Teazer shall sing us a song before we go out. You’ll get none of your die-away ballads here, Charlie. My girl has my taste, and stubbornly refuses to learn any song tainted with the least suggestion of molly-coddleism; eh, Teazer? Come, my dear, what shall it be?” She walked to the piano at once, with the air of a person who has a very disagreeable task to perform, but who knows that the sooner it is begun the sooner it will be over. The first thing she did was to knock the stool down. I instantly darted forward to pick it up, but she whispered angrily, “I am accustomed to help myself, thanks!” and set it upright with a smart bang. I paid her the compliment of considering that she was purposely clumsy in her movements, for she seemed to forget her ungainly part when seating herself, which she did with perfect but unconscious grace. I earnestly hoped she did not propose to play from music, for I dreaded the prospect of having to stand by her and turn over the pages, being ignorant of my notes, and only knowing when to turn by following the performer’s eye.