I remember hinting this once to Uncle Max, and he had rebuked me more severely than he had ever done before.

’I do not like young girls like you, Ursula, to be so critical about their elders.  Garston is an excellent fellow; he has plenty of brains, and always does the right thing, however difficult it may be.  Men are not like women, my dear:  they often hide their deepest feelings.  Your poor uncle has never been quite the same man since Ralph’s death, and just as he was getting over his boy’s loss a little he had a fresh disappointment with Charlie:  he always meant to put him in Ralph’s place.’

I was a little ashamed of my criticism when Max said this.  I felt I had not made sufficient allowance for Uncle Brian:  the death of his only son must have been a dreadful blow.  Ralph had died at Oxford; they said he had overworked himself in trying for honours and then had taken a chill.  He was a fine, handsome young fellow, nearly two-and-twenty, and his father’s idol:  no wonder Uncle Brian had grown so much older and graver during the last few years.

And he had been fond of Charlie, and had meant to have him in Ralph’s place; my poor boy would have been a rich one if he had lived.  Uncle Brian had taken him into the bank, and Lesbia and her fortune were promised to him, but the goodly heritage was snatched away before his eyes, and he was called away in the fresh bloom of his youth.

I always thought Uncle Brian liked Max better than any other man:  he was always less stiff and frigid in his presence.  I could hear his low laugh—­Uncle Brian never laughed loudly—­as I closed the door; Max had said something that amused him.  They would be quite happy without me, so I ran up to the schoolroom on the chance of getting a chat with Jill.

The schoolroom was on the second floor, where Jill, I, and Fraeulein all slept.  Sara had a handsome room next to her mother’s, and a little boudoir furnished most daintily for her special use.  I do not believe she ever sat in it, unless she had a cold or was otherwise ailing; the drawing-room was always full of company, and Sara was the life of the house.  I used to peep in at the pretty room sometimes as I went up to bed; there were few notes written at the inlaid escritoire, and the handsomely-bound books were never taken down from the shelves.  Draper, Aunt Philippa’s maid, fed the canaries and dusted the cabinets of china.  Sometimes Sara would trip into the room with one of her cronies for a special chat; the ripple of their girlish laughter would reach us as Jill and I sat together.  ‘Whom has Sara got with her this afternoon?’ Jill would say peevishly.  ’Do listen to them; they do nothing but laugh.  If Fraeulein had set her all these exercises she would not feel quite so merry,’ Jill would finish, throwing the obnoxious book from her with a little burst of impatience.