“Oh, no!” and the child's big eyes looked startlingly into his, “I call him 'Uncle Westonley.' Aunt Elizabeth said I must never say 'Uncle Ted,' as it's vulgar, and she won't allow it, and uncle says I must be obedient to her.”
Gerrard put out his right arm, drew her to him, and looked intently into her face. In her dreamy, violet-hued eyes, with the dark pencilled brows, and the small delicate mouth, he saw the image of his dead twin-sister, Mary.
“Poor little mite!” he again said to himself pityingly, as he looked at her coarse though not ill-kept clothing, “Lizzie always was a cold-hearted prig, and always will be to the end of her days—even in her moribund moments. How could she let this child wander out so far away from the station.” Then he took two or three great puffs at his pipe. “How far is it to Marumbah, little niece Mary?”
“Five miles, sir.”
“Don't say 'sir.' Who taught you to say 'sir'?”
“Aunt Elizabeth.”
“But you must not say 'sir' to me. I'm your uncle. And you must call me 'Uncle Tom.' Understand?”
“Aunt Elizabeth insists on my saying 'sir' to gentlemen.”
“Does she now? Well, my dear, you must never say 'sir' to me—I'll ask Aunt Elizabeth not to insist on your calling me 'sir.' You see I shouldn't like it I want you to call me 'Uncle Tom.' Lots of people call me Tom. Some of 'em call me Tom and Jerry—short, you know, for Thomas Gerrard.”
“Aunt Elizabeth says you're godless and wild.”