“Uncle Alf, sometimes I think you’re the unkindest man in the whole world,” she said, “and even when you’re most unkind I can’t help laughing. I wonder if you are unkind really. I don’t expect so.”
Uncle Alf took no notice of this, and went on with his grievances.
“As for Eddie, I’m sure I don’t know what to make of him,” he said. “I shouldn’t wonder if he’s going soft-headed, for he was always threatened that way, to my thinking. He can talk of nothing but the brave and beautiful Maria. Lord! my dear, it’s a wonder to me that you can stand it. Doesn’t it get on your nerves? Doesn’t it make you feel sick and ill to hear how they go on?”
Dora laughed again.
“No, Uncle Alf, it doesn’t, do you know? You see I was with them through all those dreadful days in the summer after the operation, when they still didn’t know what it was for certain, and had to make an examination, and it made a tremendous impression on me. I always used to think that they all, including Claude, were very ordinary people. Well, they’re not. They were very wonderful. They were cheerful, even when they were waiting for a verdict that might have been so terrible.”
“Bah!” said Uncle Alf.
“Yes, if you wish. They used to get on my nerves, that is quite true, and you gave me a hint about it once which was very useful. You told me to see the humorous side of Dad and Mother.”
“Lord, it’s Dad and Mother, is it?” said Alf, in a tone of acid disgust.
“Yes, Dad and Mother. Just as you are Uncle Alf, but I’ll call you Mr. Osborne if you prefer. Very well, then, I took that hint, and sometimes now I laugh at them, which I never did before. I often laugh at them now, and let them see me laughing, and Dad says to Mother, ‘There’s Dora at her jokes again. What have you said?’ They know how I love them. Dear, don’t make such awful faces. They were so splendid, you know.”