“Don't call me that,” she protested. “You're not the Archbishop of Canterbury visiting a girl's school and making a speech. You asked me not to call you 'Uncle Hosea.' If you say 'dear young lady' to me again I shall address you publicly as 'dear old Nunky.' Don't be silly.”
I laughed again. “But you ARE young,” I said.
“Well, what of it. Perhaps neither of us likes to be reminded of our age. I'm sure you don't; I never saw anyone more sensitive on the subject. There! there! put away those silly old books and come down to the drawing-room. I'm going to sing. Mr. Worcester has brought in a lot of new music.”
Reluctantly I closed the volume I had in my hand.
“Very well,” I said; “I'll come if you wish. But I shall only be in the way, as I always am. Mr. Worcester didn't plead for my company, did he? Do you know I think he will bear up manfully if I don't appear.”
She regarded me with disapproval.
“Don't be childish in your old age,” she snapped, “Are you coming?”
I went, of course, and—it may have been by way of reward—she sang several old-fashioned, simple ballads which I had found in a dog's-eared portfolio in the music cabinet and which I liked because my mother used to sing them when I was a little chap. I had asked for them before and she had ignored the request.
This time she sang them and Hephzy, sitting beside me in the darkest corner reached over and laid a hand on mine.
“Her mother all over again,” she whispered. “Ardelia used to sing those.”