George was distressed. “I didn’t mean anything, Aunt Fanny! I didn’t know you’d got so sensitive as all that.”
“You’d better go up to bed,” she said desolately, going on with her work and her weeping.
“Anyhow,” he insisted, “do let these things wait. Let the servants ’tend to the table in the morning.”
“No.”
“But, why not?”
“Just let me alone.”
“Oh, Lord!” George groaned, going to the door. There he turned. “See here, Aunt Fanny, there’s not a bit of use your bothering about those dishes tonight. What’s the use of a butler and three maids if—”
“Just let me alone.”
He obeyed, and could still hear a pathetic sniffing from the dining room as he went up the stairs.
“By George!” he grunted, as he reached his own room; and his thought was that living with a person so sensitive to kindly raillery might prove lugubrious. He whistled, long and low, then went to the window and looked through the darkness to the great silhouette of his grandfather’s house. Lights were burning over there, upstairs; probably his newly arrived uncle was engaged in talk with the Major.