"And all the circumstances of the case are so bewildering," despaired the lady.
Like white pond-lilies floating in a black gloom her sad hands curled in her lap. It seemed to be at our Uncle Peter that they curled.
"Are they indeed?" said our Uncle Peter. It was the "circumstances" that he meant.
"Very bewildering," said the Lady. Her cheeks got a little pink. She jumped up and went to the door and listened a minute at the head of the stairs. When she came back to her chair she shut the door behind her.
"As I told you," she whispered, "the little boy isn't my own little boy."
"So I understood," said our Uncle Peter.
"His Mother died when he was born," said the Lady.
"Very sad indeed," said our Uncle Peter.
"Dicky is six years old," said the Lady. "I married his Father a year and a half ago. His Father was killed in an accident a year ago—"
"Oh dear—Oh dear," said our Uncle Peter.