“Well, there, now; are you satisfied?” he said, half laughing, half angry.
“No, papa. I want to know why you and uncle quarrelled.”
“Oh, the old reason,” said Sir John, colouring. “He will be as obstinate as a mule, and the more you try to reason with him, the more he turns to you his hind legs and kicks.”
“Did you try to reason with Uncle James, papa?”
“Did I try to reason with him? Why, of course I did, but you might as well try to reason with a stone trough.”
“What was it about?” said Glynne, quietly.
“What was it about? Oh, about the—about the—bless my soul, what did it begin about? Some, some, some—dear me, how absurd, Glynne. He upset me so that it has completely gone out of my head. What do you mean? What do you mean by shaking your head like that? Confound it all, Glynne, are you going to turn against me?”
“Oh, papa, papa, how sad it is,” said Glynne, gently. “You have upset poor uncle like this all about some trifle of so little consequence that you have even forgotten what it was.”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” cried Sir John, trying to rise, but Glynne laid her hand upon his chest and kept him back. “It was no trifle, and it is no joke for your Uncle James to launch out in his confounded haughty, military way, and try to take the reins from my hands. I’m master here. I remember now; it was about Rob.”
“Indeed, papa!” said Glynne, with a sad tone in her voice.