“Never would,” said my uncle. “All he thought of was catching butterflies and drying weeds in blotting-paper.”
“But he was a good man,” said Mr Blakeford.
“Bah! good? What, to plunge into speculation and ruin himself?”
“We are none of us perfect,” said Mr Blakeford.
“Who wants to be?” said my uncle. “Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You know where I am if you want me. He was never like a brother to me. I will do as you said.”
“Yes,” said Mr Blakeford, “of course. You may trust me, Mr Grace.”
“I don’t trust anybody,” said my uncle, just as one of the servants, coming along the passage, said kindly—
“Why don’t you go in, Master Tony?”
There was a sudden movement of a chair, and I saw Mr Blakeford come forward and look at me curiously as I entered in a shamefaced way. Then he exchanged glances with my uncle, and my heart sank as I felt that they both suspected me of having been listening on the mat.
It was only at nights when I was alone in my own room that I could cry as a half heart-broken boy of eleven can cry in the desolation of his heart. My uncle had gone away the day after the funeral, telling me shortly that I must be a man now, and mind what Mr Blakeford said; and Mr Blakeford had looked at me in his peculiar way, tightening his thin lips, and smiling strangely, but saying nothing.