"George--silence--I plead!" said my aunt, and folding her white hands
demurely on her knee gazed down at them wistfully beneath drooping
lashes.

"Proceed, Julia," quoth my uncle Jervas, "your voice is music to my
soul--"

"Mine too!" added uncle George, "mine too, dooce take me if 't isn't!"

MY AUNT (her voice soft and plaintively sad). For nineteen happy years
I have devoted myself to caring for my nephew Peregrine, body and
mind. My every thought has been of him or for him, my love has been
his shield against discomforts, bodily ailments and ills of the mind--

MY UNCLE JERVAS. And precisely there, Julia, lies his happy
misfortune. You have thought for him so effectively he has had small
scope to think for himself; cared for him so sedulously that he shall
hardly know how to take care of himself; sheltered him so rigorously
that, once removed from the sphere of your strong personality, he
would be pitifully lost and helpless. In short, he is suffering of a
surfeit of love, determined tenderness and pertinacious care--in a
word, Julia, he is over-Juliaized!

MY UNCLE GEORGE (a little diffidently, and jingling his spurs). B'gad,
and there ye have it, sweet soul--d'ye see--

MY AUNT (smiting him speechless with flashing eye). I--am--not your
sweet soul. And as for poor dear Peregrine--

MY UNCLE JERVAS. The poor youth is become altogether too