Alma shot a glance at Nancy.
"Good-afternoon, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott, in a rather faint voice, and flushing crimson with nervousness. "It—it is very kind of you——"
"Not at all," he interrupted, brusquely, "not at all. May we have a light—it is rather dark."
Nancy quickly lit the gas, and as the light from the jet shone down on her upturned face the old man scrutinized her keenly. A queer, half-tender, but repressed expression changed the lines in his stern old face for a moment, then he looked at Alma, who was regarding him with perfectly unconcealed terror and awe.
"How do you do?" he said to her, holding out his hand. "How do you do? You're my niece Alma, eh? Anne is the one who looks like—like my nephew, and Alma is the one who resembles her mother." He said this as if he were repeating some directions to himself. "I haven't seen you since you were children." He shook Alma's hand formally, and sat down at Mrs. Prescott's timid invitation, The short silence which ensued, while it seemed like an age of discomfort to the Prescotts, apparently was unobserved by him.
"It has been a very long time since—since I have seen you, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott in desperation, quite aware that this remark, like any one she should make just then, was a very awkward one.
"Yes. I never go out, madam. So this is Anne—Nancy, eh?" He turned abruptly to the girl and met her clear, steady eyes sharply. "You were a child—a very little girl when I saw you last. You resemble my nephew very much,—my—my dear.
"No doubt, madam, you are wondering at the reason of this visit," he said, all at once plunging into the heart of matters with an air of impatience at any "beating about the bush." "I've no doubt it was the last thing in the world you expected, eh?"
"It was indeed a surprise," murmured Mrs. Prescott.
"I realized that my grandnieces are growing up, and I had a curiosity to see them. There is the kernel of the matter. They are handsome girls. I suppose everyone knows that they have a rich uncle—and prospects, eh?"