“But, uncle, dear, I’m afraid you do show a little temper sometimes.”
“Temper! I show temper! Nothing of the kind,” cried the old fellow, angrily, and his grey curls seemed to stand out wildly from his head. “Only decision—just so much decision as a military man should show—nothing more. Temper, indeed!”
“But you are hasty, dear, and papa so soon gets warm.”
“Warm? Red hot. White hot. He has a temper that would irritate a saint, and heaven knows I am no saint.”
“It does seem such a pity for you and papa to quarrel.”
“Pity? It’s abominable, my child, when we might live together as peaceably as pigeons. But he shall have it his own way now. I’ve done. I’ll have no more of it I’m not a child.”
“What are you going to do, uncle?”
“Do? Pack up and go, this very day. Then he may come to my chambers and beg till all’s blue, but he’ll never persuade me to come out here again.”
“Oh, uncle! It will be so dull if you go away.”
“No, no, not it, my dear. You’ve got your captain; and there’ll be peace in the house then till he finds someone else to bully. Why, I might be one of his farm labourers; that I might. But there’s an end of it now.”