“Look at me, my darling.”
She raised her eyes to his face, but when she met his glance she dropped them immediately.
“Gloria!”
“What is it, uncle, dear?”
“I wish you would not call me ‘uncle.’ I am not your uncle, child. Do you not know it?”
She did not speak or look up, but worked steadily on her embroidery, feeling that the atmosphere oppressed her so that she could scarcely breathe.
“Do you not know that I am not your uncle, Gloria? Do you not know that I am not the least kin to you? Answer me, my darling.”
“Yes, I know it,” said the perplexed girl, scarcely above her breath.
“Then you do not love me the less for not being your own uncle?”
“Oh, no,” breathed the girl.