“Ah, but I’ve got my own father to look back upon,” Mr. Gustard said. “He mostly took a spade to me, I remember, though he wasn’t against jabbing me in the ribs with a trowel if there wasn’t a spade handy. I reckon it was him as first put the notion of liberty for all into my head. I never set much store by uncles, though. The only uncle I ever had died of croup when he was two years old.”
“My father didn’t like his aunts,” Sylvia added to the condemnation. “He was brought up by two aunts.”
“Aunts in general is sour bodies, ’specially when they’re in charge and get all the fuss of having children with none of the fun.”
“Mr. Monkley isn’t really my uncle,” Sylvia abruptly proclaimed.
“Go on! you don’t mean it?” said Mr. Gustard. “I suppose he’s your guardian?”
“He’s nothing at all,” Sylvia answered.
“He must be something.”
“He’s absolutely nothing,” she insisted. “He used to live with my father, and when my father died he just went on living with me. If I don’t want to live with him I needn’t.”
“But you must live with somebody,” said Mr. Gustard. “There’s a law about having visible means of support. You couldn’t have a lot of kids living on their own.”
“Why not?” Sylvia asked, in contemptuous amazement.