They were in the library. Uncle Robert was there, sitting in his chair
behind them, at the other end of the long room. She had forgotten Uncle
Robert.

"Oh, Eliot," she said, "have I done anything?"

"Not that I know of." His face stiffened.

"You look as if I had. Have I?"

"Don't talk such putrid rot. As if I cared what you did. Can't you leave
me alone?"

And he jumped up and left the room.

And there was Uncle Robert in his chair, watching her, looking kind and
sorry.

"What's the matter with him?" she said. "Why is he so cross?"

"You mustn't mind. He doesn't mean it."

"No, but it's so funny of him. He's only cross with me; and I haven't
done anything."

"It isn't that."

"What is it, then? I believe he hates me."