“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.”