For Madelaine had gone behind his chair, and placed her hands upon his shoulders.
“It’s all waste of breath, Uncle Luke,” she said gently. “We found you out a long time ago, Louise and I.”
“What do you mean?”
“All this pretended cynicism. It’s a mere disguise.”
“An ass in the lion’s skin, eh?”
“No, Uncle Luke,” she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, so that the others should not catch the words, “that is the wrong way, sir. Reverse the fable.”
“What do you mean, hussy?”
“The dear old lion in the ass’s skin,” she whispered; “and whenever you try to bray it is always a good honest roar.”
“Well, of all—”
He did not finish, for Madelaine had hurried from the room, but a grim smile came over his cynical countenance, and he rubbed his hands softly as if he was pleased. Then, drawing his chair nearer to the bed, he joined in the conversation at rare intervals, the subjects chosen being all as foreign as possible from the past troubles, till Mrs Van Heldre came softly into the room.