"Is her husband the old man I saw at the door?" Felicia inquired.
"Yes, he's the butler, and it isn't his place to open the door—one of us maids is supposed to do that—but he often does. He's a very kind old man."
"I thought he looked kind."
"He looks just what he is. The master thinks very highly of him, and so does Mr. Guy."
"Who is Mr. Guy?" asked Felicia.
"Dear me," cried Ann, "to think you don't know! Why, he's your uncle, to be sure."
"I did not know I had an uncle," Felicia confessed with some embarrassment; "does he live here?"
"Oh, yes! But often he keeps to his own rooms, for he's a great invalid. Poor Mr. Guy! He's not much over thirty, and I suppose he never knows what it is to feel really well. He's clever, they say, but he's very peculiar—very; it's his temper makes him so, I suppose, and he's terribly afflicted, so there's some excuse for him. I think I'd better tell you, miss, that he's a hunchback."
"A hunchback!" Felicia echoed in accents of deepest pity. "Oh, how very, very sad!"
"Isn't it? He was his mother's favourite child, they say; she was devoted to him, and since her death he has grown more and more morose and ill-tempered. Your grandmother was a very sweet lady, miss."