"And I do think it is the most pathetic thing about your Uncle Basil," said Mrs. Scott.
"My Uncle Basil," repeated Richard. "What of him?"
Mrs. Scott's hands clasped one another in a gesture of amazement.
"Why Mr. Utterly said—why where were you?—oh, yes, you were in the kitchen so kindly helping Cora!—he said your uncle wrote wonderfully. I think it's very strange—"
Richard was suddenly certain that his neighbor wished to "get something out of him."
"Oh, that!" said he, without having any idea what she meant.
Mrs. Scott made him promise to come the next afternoon to play with Cora. He could not escape. He almost added poor, inoffensive Cora to her mother and the metallic piano in the limbo to which he consigned them. Now his wings drooped. He decided that after supper he would lie down for a few minutes to get rid of the sharp pain which too much practicing had put into the back of his neck. Then he would join his father and mother on the porch and settle the important business of his future.
At the supper table he asked about his Uncle Basil and his mother answered placidly, prepared for the question.
"He had published anonymously some stories and this Mr. Utterly came to ask questions about his life."
"Why wasn't I told?"