He ignored this remark. "There's a tenpun' note missing," said he.
"Don't play them tricks on me, lass; I'm getting an oldish man. Where
hast hidden it? I mun go to th' bank." He spoke plaintively.

"My dear uncle," she replied, "I've not hidden your ten-pound note. I
wanted some money in a hurry, so I took it. I've spent some of it."

"Spent some of it!" he exclaimed. "How much hast spent?"

"Oh, I don't know. But I make up my accounts every night."

"Lass," said he, staring firmly out of the window, "this won't do. I let
ye know at once. This wunna' do." He was determined to be master in his
own house. She also was determined to be master in his own house.
Conflict was imminent.

"May I ask what you mean, uncle?"

He hesitated. He was not afraid of her. But he was afraid of her
dress--not of the material, but of the cut of it. If she had been Susan
in Susan's dowdy and wrinkled alpaca, he would have translated his just
emotion into what critics call "simple, nervous English"--that is to
say, Shakespearean prose. But the aristocratic, insolent perfection of
Helen's gown gave him pause.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"I merely didn't think of it," she said. "I've been very busy."