I cannot make up my mind about Uncle Hubert. Is he our fellow-victim or the ringleader of this usurping gang of ruffians? The more I see, the more I hesitate upon the point. But, as time goes on, I hesitate less and less in my dislike of him, although I own it often seems unreasonable and ungrateful. The man not only tries to make himself agreeable to us, but I almost think he feels kindly. He has a real appreciation of Eustace's genius; and, indeed, it is this, most likely, which sometimes causes me to think well, though I fear never _kindly_, of him. It is quite wonderful how he lights up whenever he can get Eustace (no easy matter) to speak on philosophic subjects; it is a kind of transfiguration, and all the obliquity and fawningness about the creature vanishes. He has a good knowledge of mathematics, Eustace tells me, is a skilful mechanic, and would evidently enjoy assisting my husband in his experiments if he would let him. Towards myself he has, I do believe, a kind of sentiment, and what is worse, of paternal sentiment! _Worse_ because my whole nature recoils from him. He is most passionately fond of music, plays fairly on the viol, and takes quite a childish pleasure in making me sing and play. I ought indeed to be grateful towards him, for his presence, although distasteful I think to both of us, is a boon, in so far as it relieves the strain of feeling that there is a secret--a something which has come between my husband and me. Alas, alas! that the presence of a third person, of a person such as Hubert, should ever have come to be a boon! But I dare not face this thought. It is worse than any of the bad realities and bad probabilities of this bad place. If only Hubert would not make me presents, forcing me thus to feel how hugely I hate having to accept anything from him. It began (almost as a bribe, methought) in the shape of a fine gold watch and equipage the very day after Uncle Edward's misbehaviour. Then, some time after, a cut of handsome Lyons brocade, enough for a gown, though Heaven knows there is no occasion for such finery at St. Salvat's! And this evening, after listening to me through some songs of Monsieur Piccini, and teaching me some of the plaintive airs of the Welsh peasantry, the man drew from his coat a fine shagreen case, which proved to contain a string of large and very regularly shaped and sorted pearls. I felt I could not bear it. "Are they pearls of my mother-in-law's?" I asked without thanking him, and in a tone anything, I fear, but grateful. Instead of being angry and turning green, as I expected, Uncle Hubert looked merely very much hurt and answered: "Had they been heirlooms it would have been your husband, not your uncle, to hand them you. Eustace is the head of the family, not I." "The less said about the family and its head," I answered hotly, "the better, Uncle Hubert," and I felt sorry the moment after.