"So HE old says." She jerked her head at my uncle.

"He won't tell me when--so I can't get anything ready. But it's
coming. Going to ride in our carriage and have a garden. Garden--like a
bishop's."

She finished her bun and twiddled crumbs from her fingers. "I shall be
glad of the garden," she said. "It's going to be a real big one with
rosaries and things. Fountains in it. Pampas grass. Hothouses."

"You'll get it all right," said my uncle, who had reddened a little.

"Grey horses in the carriage, George," she said. "It's nice to think
about when one's dull. And dinners in restaurants often and often. And
theatres--in the stalls. And money and money and money."

"You may joke," said my uncle, and hummed for a moment.

"Just as though an old Porpoise like him would ever make money,"
she said, turning her eyes upon his profile with a sudden lapse to
affection. "He'll just porpoise about."

"I'll do something," said my uncle, "you bet! Zzzz!" and rapped with a
shilling on the marble table.

"When you do you'll have to buy me a new pair of gloves," she said,
"anyhow. That finger's past mending. Look! you Cabbage--you." And she
held the split under his nose, and pulled a face of comical fierceness.

My uncle smiled at these sallies at the time, but afterwards, when I