“Uncle, what is the use—­your trying to play the misanthrope with me, who know how good you are, in spite of your pretenses to the contrary?  To hide your emotion from your poor niece, you go into a feigned fury, and all the time you know how sorry you are your poor friend is gone.”

“Of course I am.  He has secured one mourner.  He might have died to all eternity if he hadn’t nailed me first.  See how selfish men are, and bad-hearted into the bargain.  I believe that young fellow had been to a doctor, and found out he was booked in spite of his mahogany cheeks; so then he rides out here and wheedles an unguarded friend—­I’m wired—­I’m trapped—­I’m snared.”

Lucy set herself to soothe her injured relative.  “You must say to yourself, ’C’est un petit matheur.’"

“Tell myself a falsehood?  What shall I gain by that?  Let me tell you, it is these minor troubles that send a man to Bedlam.  One breeds another, till they swarm and buzz you distracted, and sting you dead. ’Petit maiheur!’ it is a greater one than you have ever encountered since you have been under my wing.”

“It is, dear, it is; but I hope to encounter much greater ones before I am your age.”

“The deuce you do!”

“Or else I shall die without ever having lived—­a vegetable, not a human being.”

“Bombast! a ‘flower’ your lovers will call you.”

“And men of sense a ‘weed.’  But don’t let us discuss me.  What I wish to know is the nature of your annoyance, dear.”  He explained to her with a groan that he should have to wind up all the affairs of an estate of 8,000 pounds a year, pay the annual and other encumbrances, etc., etc.

“Well, but, dear, you will be quite at home in this, you have such a turn for business.”

“For my own,” shrieked the old bachelor, angrily, “not for other people’s.  Why, Lucy, there will be half a dozen separate accounts, all of four figures.  It is not as if executors were paid.  And why are they not paid?  There ought to be a law compelling the estates they administer to pay them, and handsomely.  It never occurred to me before, but now I see the monstrous iniquity of amateur executors, amateur trustees, amateur guardians.  They take business out of the hands of those who live by business.  I sincerely regret my share in this injustice.  If a snob works, he always expects to be paid! how much more a gentleman.  He ought to be paid double—­once for the work, and once for giving up his natural ease.  Here am I, guardian gratis to a cub of sixteen—­the worst age—­done school, and not begun Oxford and governesses.”

“Tutors, you mean.”

“Do I?  Is it the tutors the whelps fall in love with, little goose?  Stop; I’ll describe my ‘interesting charge,’ as the books call it.  He has hair you could not tell from tow.  He has no eyebrows—­a little unfledged slippery horror.  He used to come in to dessert, and turn all our stomachs except his silly father’s.”