Uncle Robert accepted the verdict he had heard. He had no vanity. It was only joy he had felt in seeing his rhymes in print—joy such as a child feels over a sand castle which is to him wonderful.
The joy was gone. He was like the child who has seen a big wave wash his wonderful castle away—and he could have wept!
Colonel Lane was eating a meal in the dining-room and Annie Barrimore was with him.
She was speaking of Robert’s book, her shining eyes expressing the pleasure she felt.
“It is so good to see him so glad,” she was saying. “He has been giving joy to others all his life, and has now the thing he so desired. I do hope the critics will be kind.”
“I hope that Philip will hold his tongue,” said the Colonel with some asperity, remembering the expression he had noted on that young man’s face.
Mrs. Barrimore looked troubled. “You do Philip an injustice, dear friend,” she said. “He would not say anything to grieve his uncle, when he sees him so happy about the book.”
“I hope not,” replied the Colonel shortly.
Mrs. Barrimore was always a little hurt when Colonel Lane spoke of her boy in that tone of voice. This dear friend—who was so very dear—certainly did not understand Philip.
Colonel Lane was thinking how very blind some adoring mothers could be. He saw he had hurt her, and was sorry. To hurt so gentle a creature was to his soldier-heart like shooting a flower.