who never speak out. I feel . . . and I say what I think. I'm like that. Mamma's different: she never speaks out. I must speak out; I should choke if I didn't. I should like to say everything, always. When I'm miserable, I want to say so; when I feel happy, I want to say so. But it's not always possible, Auntie . . . Auntie, do try and be happy with Uncle. He is so nice, he is so kind; and you were very fond of him once. It's a very long time ago, I know; but you must begin and grow fond of each other again. Tell me, can't you love him any more?"
"Dear . . ."
"Oh, I see it all: you can't! No, you can't love him any more. And Uncle is so nice, so kind . . . even though he is so quick-tempered and excitable. He's so young still: he's just like a hot-headed undergraduate sometimes, Henri said. In that scene with Papa, he was just like a game-cock . . . You know, in the family, the uncles are afraid of Uncle Henri, because he always wants to be fighting duels. But that's his quick temper; in reality, he's nice, he's kind. I know it, Auntie, because, when Uncle sees me home, we talk about all sorts of things, tell each other everything. You don't mind, Auntie, do you? You're not jealous?"
"No, dear."
"No, you're not jealous. And Uncle Henri is my uncle too, isn't he, and there's no harm in talking
