"Haven't you been there?"
"Yes, yes—parts of it."
"Miriam," said Mildred Caniper, "Alfred is not a geography book."
"But he ought to be," she dared.
"And," the cool voice went on, "you never cared for geography, I remember."
Miriam sat back sullenly, stiffening until her prettily shod feet reached an inch further along the fender. Rupert would not relieve the situation and the visitor smoked on, watching Miriam through his tobacco smoke, until a knock came at the door.
"I beg your pardon, M'm—"
"It's Mother Samson," said Rupert. "Shall I look after her?"
"No. I will go." The door closed quietly behind Mrs. Caniper.
Uncle Alfred lowered his pipe. "You are extraordinarily like your mother," he said in quick and agitated tones, and the life of the room was changed amazingly. Rupert turned on his seat, and his elbow scraped the piano notes so that they jangled like a hundred questions. Miriam slipped out of her chair.