"So much more suitable than my poor dear Austin! She was quite true in all she told me. She never had cared for my boy. It was a very one-sided attachment." And Sidney and her father just waited on, saying very little to outsiders, but feeling all the more. It was a difficult time to them, and Sidney's spirits, though generally good, fluctuated occasionally. After her inspection of the house, Mrs. Norman did not trouble them much with her company, but the Major talked of nothing but her wishes and her views and her likings, until even the Admiral began to lose his equanimity of temper. One day there was a question raised about the guns on the Terrace. "Ethel wants to know if you would mind very much if they were moved. She says they spoil that bit of lawn. I told her you were attached to them, but they wouldn't look bad in the field on the edge of the cliff. She says they would show a more imposing front there to the public up and down the river." Then the Admiral turned upon his brother. "Look here, Ted, if those guns go, I go too. You know they've been part of the soil for a couple of generations. For goodness' sake, man, let your future wife keep to her own province, and not meddle with our family trophies. And let her have a right to our name before she begins to turn our household topsy-turvy." Major Urquhart said a bad word and flung himself out of the room. From being good-tempered and in high spirits, he relapsed into sullenness and gloom, and spent all his days down at the cottage. Sidney guessed that Mrs. Norman was quietly and steadily exerting all her powers to estrange him from her and her father. But her heart ached for him, as she knew he was being used as the widow's mouthpiece, and did not like the business. The wedding-day was fixed, and Sidney packed her uncle's portmanteaux and thought of everything him. By Mrs. Norman's wish, none of the family were to come up to it. They were going to Paris for a fortnight, and then coming straight to The Anchorage. Just before the Major left the house, he found Sidney tidying in his dressing-room. She put her hands affectionately on his shoulders. "Oh, dear Uncle Ted, I do wish you happiness." He looked at her wistfully. "I do believe you do," he said. "I'm—I'm rather too old for this kind of thing. It makes me feel nervous. But I wish you felt nicer in your heart towards Ethel. It always gives me an uncomfortable feeling when you are talking together." He shook his head as he spoke. "Now, look here," said Sidney with earnestness, "if we aren't a happy family when we all settle in together, you must let father and me slip away from you, and then there will be no friction. We mustn't live at warfare with one another. We will see how things work. You have told father you don't want him to go, but I won't have him stay here, if he is miserable."