Frances said that she was a temporary resident.
“Ah! visiting here, I suppose?”
“Yes. Yes, I am visiting. I am living at the rectory, also.”
“Miss Morley is Mr. Knowles's niece,” explained Bayliss.
Heathcroft seemed surprised.
“Indeed!” he drawled. “Didn't know you had a niece, Knowles. She wasn't with you on the ship, now was she.”
“Miss Morley had been living in England—here and on the Continent,” I answered. I could have kicked Bayliss for his officious explanation of kinship. Now I should have that ridiculous “uncle” business to contend with, in our acquaintance with Heathcroft as with the Baylisses and the rest. Frances, I am sure, read my thoughts, for the corners of her mouth twitched and she looked away over the course.
“Won't you ask Mr. Heathcroft to join our game—Uncle?” she said. She had dropped the hated “Hosea,” I am happy to say, but in the presence of those outside the family she still addressed me as “Uncle.” Of course she could not do otherwise without arousing comment, but I did not like it. Uncle! there was a venerable, antique quality in the term which I resented more and more each time I heard it. It emphasized the difference in our ages—and that difference needed no emphasis.
Heathcroft looked pleased at the invitation, but he hesitated in accepting it.
“Oh, I shouldn't do that, really,” he declared. “I should be in the way, now shouldn't I.”