He laid a hand on hers and said: “Let us give Robert a good time. He said we must make a night of it. We will ask him to read some of his verses aloud to us.”
Mrs. Barrimore smiled up at him. “That is a very sweet thought of yours,” she said gratefully. “We will all go to the drawing-room. There is a lovely fire, and we have not yet had our coffee. We dined rather earlier to-night, and thought it would be nice to have our coffee later. I will go and fetch Robert. I saw him go out into the garden. You find Philip and Phyllis, and make them go to the drawing-room. By the way, how do you think Phyllis is looking?”
“We will talk of Phyllis later, dear,” he said.
Uncle Robert, who had conquered himself to some degree, entered at that moment, and taking his sister’s arm, led her to the drawing-room; where the others joined them almost immediately.
“Now, Burns!” said the Colonel heartily. “You said we were to make a night of it! We all want you to read us some of your verses aloud.”
A crooked smile passed over Uncle Robert’s face as he stammered: “No, Lane. I think not. We have had enough of the book for to-night. I have been behaving like a foolish schoolboy who has carried home his first prize. Annie and Phyllis shall play and sing to us. Annie, old girl, can you sing some of those old songs we used to have at home?”
Philip looked up sharply at his uncle. He saw plainly that something was amiss, but never dreamed what it was. He felt sorry, for he was fond of his uncle, if he thought little of his poetry.
“Do read us some of the verses, uncle,” he said.
Mr. Burns fixed his eyes on his nephew. “You should not ask me,” was all he said.
There was an odd dignity about Uncle Robert as he spoke the brief sentence, which escaped no one’s observation; and everyone, including the culprit himself, felt sure that some wound was at the bottom of it.