“They are extremely in my way, Muriel—extremely; I may say I am greatly inconvenienced by them. I suppose you realize that I am alone in the world; and yet you seem to imagine that your duty is to be among these unpleasant characters in filthy slums instead of at home looking after my comfort.” Muriel smiled a little to herself as she thought of the array of servants the great house held, of the friends and cronies at the club, where he spent the greater part of his time. “His comfort!”—surely there were enough people in the world already looking after that. “Uncle Arthur,” she said, “we’ve talked all this out before, haven’t we? We don’t see it quite in the same light. I am very sorry you are not comfortable. If the servants——” “Muriel,” he interrupted in a raised voice, “how dare you mention servants to me! Do you imagine that when I refer to comfort I mean personal attendance? You have never had any heart! Mine has always been an essentially affectionate nature. It is domestic companionship that I desire; and now that you are of an age to be of some comfort to me, you fly off to—Heaven knows where!—and throw me back on the servants!” Muriel sighed gently and laid her hand on his. “Dear uncle, you have always been so good to me. But you see you weren’t always at home, and a girl nowadays isn’t satisfied simply in being domestic.” “I should scarcely have imagined _you_, my niece Muriel, accusing me of neglect! You invariably lose your temper upon these subjects, which proves that you feel yourself to be in the wrong. You know perfectly well that you can have any woman you want to live with you as lady companion, but you’re so independent and obstinate——” “That no one would live with me if you asked them,” she finished merrily. “Ah!—but please don’t talk about this any more,” she pleaded as he strove to begin again. “We shall never agree! I must have my work to do. I cannot be happy without it, and I cannot do it at home. But I only ask for nine months of it. It is April now, and in July you shall have me back for three whole months, and do just what you like, dear. Isn’t that a splendid bargain?” The tea was very nice, and the buttered muffins especially were done to a turn. Sir Arthur Dallerton crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair (forgetful of its former occupant). “My dear,” he said mildly, “what will people say? Have you ever thought of that?” “Yes, dear uncle,” said Muriel, smiling; “I have thought of it, and I have come to the conclusion that I had better not think about it any more. Won’t you have some more muffin?” Sir Arthur Dallerton graciously accepted another piece. It did not occur to him that Muriel had eaten nothing—those sort of things never did occur to him. If it had done so he would have put it down to hysteria—the one great refuge for the selfish. “Mrs. le Mentier,” he pursued, “who is a very sensible woman, told me what people were saying, and I think you ought to know of it too.”