It was Tom’s turn to start now, for his uncle had immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was his doing, and his words in answer sounded lame and inconclusive.
“I didn’t break it, uncle; I found it on the floor.”
“Found it on the floor!” cried Uncle Richard, sarcastically. “It was the cat, I suppose. Was the window left open?”
“I found—”
“There, hold your tongue now,” said Uncle Richard. “I have something else to think about. You will have everything ready, Mrs Fidler. I have been so separated from my brother nearly all my life, that I feel I owe him every attention.”
“I will attend to it all most carefully.”
“He may come down to-morrow, for I have written saying he is most welcome.”
“Make yourself quite easy, sir. His room shall be ready. I beg pardon, sir; is his good lady coming with him?”
“No, he is coming down alone. I have told him to telegraph by what train, so that I may go and meet him.”
The miserable dinner soon came to an end, and Uncle Richard, instead of chatting pleasantly, never so much as looked at his nephew. But Mrs Fidler did, with her head on one side; and every time Tom caught her eye, which seemed to be nearly every minute, she shook her head at him gently, and gave him such appealing looks, that he felt exasperated at last, and as if he would like to throw something at her.