"But it places us in a very awkward position, Uncle Ted, dear. Father is proud, and so am I. If you say you have the right to the house, and want to live alone, we shall walk out of it—to-morrow, if necessary."
The Major shot an almost frightened look at his niece; then he said humbly:
"We won't quarrel, Sid. We've lived fair and square together, only sometimes I feel I'd like to have a wife and a home of my own. It's not likely to happen. No one would put up with a lame, maimed creature like me, but I own I did have a bout of temper this morning."
"Then we won't say any more about it; but come into father's study with me, and we'll have a cosy tea together."
"I can't do that. I saw the hounds come back half an hour ago. That puppy is out with her, and she asked me to come down and hear about her first day out. It's lonely for a woman to turn into an empty house after a hard run and have no one to speak to. I wish to heavens that young cub had never lent her a mount! She'll break her neck with some of his half-trained hunters, but she told me her doctor strongly recommended her to ride for the sake of her health. It makes one feel the loss of one's legs when one remembers bygone days and what hard hunting one had."
Sidney gave a little caressing pat to his shoulder.
"We'll let bygones be bygones," she said half pityingly, half cheerily. "And when you meet father again, do be nice to him. He isn't at all well to-day."
"Nice," muttered the Major. "Wonder how often women make mention of that feminine adjective! I always loathed 'nice' behaviour!"
But his growl was no longer surly, and Sidney knew that peace had been restored.