know, Uncle Elbert and his wife parted. There wasn't a thing the matter,
I believe, except that they weren't hitting it off particularly well.
They simply agreed to disagree. _Nouveau riche_, and all that, wasn't
it? Mrs. Carstairs has some money of her own. She picked up, packed up,
walked out, bought a place up the river, near Hunston, and has lived
there ever since."

Peter looked up quickly. "Hunston? Ha! But fire away."

"She and Uncle Elbert have stayed pretty good friends all through it.
They exchange letters now and then, and once or twice when she has been
in the city, I believe they have met--though not in recent years. My
private suspicion is that she has never entirely got over being in love
with him. Anyhow, there's their general relationship in a
nutshell--parted but friendly. It might have stayed just like that till
they were both in their graves, but for one accidental complication.
There is a child."

"I seem to remember," said Peter. "A little boy."

"On the contrary. A little girl. Uncle Elbert," said Varney, "is a bit
of a social butterfly. Mrs. Carstairs is an earnest domestic character.
As I gather, that was what they clashed on--the idea of what a home
ought to be. When the split came, Mrs. Carstairs took the child and
Uncle Elbert was willing enough to have her do it. That was natural
enough, Peter. He had his friends and his clubs and his little dinners,
and he was no more competent to raise a girl baby than you are, which is
certainly going some for a comparison. I suppose the fact was that he
was glad to be free of the responsibility. But it's mighty different
now.