Mynheer blew his nose.
“This cheap cloth won’t last, uncle,” said Harriet, briskly.
He pretended not to hear her. She bored him. She had been all very well while his wife dragged on, but now—! And, why, after all, should he be saddled with this sharp-tongued girl? She was no relation of his, though she called him “uncle.” Mevrouw Mopius’s childless sister had been the first wife of Harriet’s father, Dr. Verveen.
“Yes,” he repeated, mechanically, “everything my mother produced was first-rate of its kind.”
“Especially her son,” said Harriet, with a sneer that positively fizzled.
Mynheer Mopius’s yellow face grew a shade healthier in color. He accepted his third cup in thoughtful silence; then he said, “And now, my dear young lady, what do you mean to do?”
She looked at him, across the steaming urn.
“Go to bed,” she replied.
“Quite so. And after?”
“Why, sleep, of course. What do you mean, uncle?”