“Here, come away, George,” snarled Uncle Luke. “He’s better. Beginning to sneer. Temper’s getting very bad now, I suppose, my dear?” he added to Madelaine.
“Terrible. Leads me a dreadful life, Uncle Luke,” she said, putting her arm round Van Heldre’s neck to lay her cheek against his brow for a moment or two before turning to leave the room.
“Cant and carny,” said Uncle Luke. “Don’t you believe her, John Van; she’ll be coming to you for money to-morrow—bless her,” he added sotto voce; then aloud, “What now?”
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?”