“Edith is a little overwrought,” says Brooks.  “It’s true enough that you’re not quite an agreeable person to live with.  Still, I hardly feel that I have treated you just right in this matter.  I shouldn’t have deceived you about the studio.  When I found that I couldn’t bear to give up my work and live like a loafer on your money, I should have told you so outright.  I haven’t liked it, Sir, all this dodging and twisting of the truth.  I’m glad it’s over.  Would you prefer to have us go tonight or in the morning?”

“Come now, that’s not the point,” says Uncle Jeff.  “You hate me, too, don’t you?”

“No,” says Brooks, “and I’m sure Edith doesn’t either.”

“Yes I do, Brooks,” breaks in Edith.

Brooks shrugs his shoulders sort of hopeless.

“In that case,” says he, “we shall leave at once—­now.  I will send around for our traps later.  You have been very generous, and I’m afraid I’ve shown myself up for an ungrateful ass, if not worse.  Goodby, Sir.”

He stands there holdin’ out his hand, with the old gent starin’ hard at him and not movin’.  Fin’lly Uncle Jeff breaks the spell.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” says he.  “Bladen, I didn’t think it was in you.  I took you for one of the milksop kind; which shows just how big a fool an old fool can be.  And Edith is right.  I’m a crazy, quarrelsome old wretch.  It isn’t all rheumatism, either.  Some of it is disposition.  And don’t you go away thinking I’ve been generous, trying to tie you two young people down this way.  It was rank selfishness.  But you don’t know how hard it comes, being shut up like this and able only to move around on wheels—­after the life I’ve led too!  I suppose I ought to be satisfied.  I’ve had my share—­nearly thirty years on the go, in jungle, forest, mountains, all over the globe.  I’ve hunted big game in every—­but you know all about that.  And now I suppose I’m worn out, useless.  I was trying to get used to it, and having you young folks around has helped a lot.  But it hasn’t been fair to you—­not fair.”

He sort of chokes up at the end, and his lower lip trembles some; but only for a second.  He straightens up once more in his chair.  “You must try to make allowances, Edith,” he goes on.  “Don’t—­don’t hate the old wretch too hard!”

That got to her, all right.  She’ wa’n’t gush all the way through, any more’n Uncle Jeff was all crust.  Next thing he knew she was givin’ him the fond tackle and sobbin’ against his vest.

“There, there!” says he, pattin’ her soothin’.  “We all make our mistakes, old and young; only us old fellows ought to know better.”

“But—­but they aren’t daubs!” sobs out Edith.  “And—­and you said they were, without even seeing them.”

“Just like me,” says he.  “And I’m no judge, anyway.  But perhaps I’d better take a look at some of them.  How would that be, eh?  Couldn’t Tupper bring a couple of them down now?”