“Poor Uncle Luke!” she said softly. “I was right. He must have had some shock to change his life like this. Good-night, dear Mr Vine. My dearest love to Louie.”
“Good-night, my darling,” he whispered huskily, and the next minute he was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the turning up to the granite house.
“Good-night, Luke,” said George Vine. “It is of no use to say come up.”
“Yes, it is,” said Uncle Luke snappishly. “I want to see Louie, and have a decent cup of tea.”
“I am very glad,” said his brother warmly. “Hah! that’s right. Come more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it’s pleasant to talk of the days when we were boys.”
“And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I’ll come often.”
“Poor Marguerite!”
“There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can’t you call her Margaret, like a British Christian?”
“Let her finish her span in peace, brother,” said George Vine, whose visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice and step elastic. “We are crotchety and strange too, I with my mollusc hobby, you with your fishing.”
“If you want to quarrel, I’m not coming up.”