“She is not angry, Richard. I think, if one knew, she is your friend now. She is very quiet and unself-assertive--always now since she came back to us. Once I saw her looking so strangely at me, and I hurried to her, and knelt and took her hands in mine without a word. ‘Be a good wife to him,’ she whispered suddenly; ‘he has suffered such wrong from us all’--and she was crying, Richard, as she got up and left me. And afterwards, as I passed the nursery door, she was sitting huddled on the floor by baby’s cot; and I could not see her face because her hands were held quite still to it, and the firelight was dancing in her beautiful hair. She has grown so humble, it makes me cry. And, Richard, I think Uncle Charlie feels the change in her; and it has made him more masterful--more peremptory. Once Mr Pugsley came, and he would not let him see her, but got rid of him without ceremony, and she did not say anything when she heard. It is as if she knows that she has forfeited her right to a voice in the conduct of her own affairs.” “I have no quarrel with her, Ira; and now less than ever. She will always be my mother in my heart--God forgive me, and her. But with Lord Skene it is another matter. He knows how I stand with you, and this persecution of his only shows his determination to resist all natural claims of mine on his consideration.” “He scoffs at the whole story, Richard. I think he looks upon it as the fabrication of a pretender.” “He chooses to look upon it so, dear. A son, an old man’s Benjamin, stands in my way. Well, if it were not for the vile insult implied to my father, I think I could almost honour his infatuation, and be content to waive my claim for--for that? I was going to say for a younger brother; but things have altered. Just imagine it, Ira; that little cradle creature is my uncle.” That set her off laughing. “And you are asked to make room for him, dear. Doesn’t it sound like that horrible vulgar song? You should hear Lord Sycamore drone it out--it is one of his most admired performances--with the little brays to give it tone: “‘Richard, make room for your uncle--haw! There’s a little de-ar--haw!’” She buried her face against me, and withdrew it for a moment, flushed and half weeping between laughter and indignation. “I am ashamed to tell you such nonsense, dear. But it has really been very painful--you see, I am not of age yet--and so--and so, I have got something to confess.” “Confess away. Your lips, you know, can always make their own bid for absolution.” “You wicked priest. But it’s nothing very dreadful--at least I hope you don’t think it so--only that things became so unbearable in the end that I thought it best to go on a visit. I wonder if you can guess where?” “Tell me.”