"No, don't. Why should you? You're always putting her on us and clearing out yourself!"
"I? But I have nothing to do with her!"
"She's your daughter-in-law."
"I dare say, but I can't help that."
"Yes, you can."
"How do you mean? How can I help it?"
"Why, if you had stopped Addie at the time . . . had forbidden it . . . as his father."
"You young baggage! Do you imagine that I can forbid Addie anything? I've never been able to prevent his doing a thing. He's always done what he wanted to, from the time when he was a child."
"You can help it."
"Can I? Well, whether I can help it or not . . . I'm going upstairs."
"No, Uncle, you're not to. You must come in. Do be nice. Come along for our sake. You're fond of us, aren't you? You love all Addie's adopted children, Uncle, don't you?"
"Yes, kiddie, I'm fond of you all, though I've lost Addie altogether through you."
"No, Uncle, not altogether."
"Well, what's the use of sharing him with the pack of you?"
"But you can afford to share him a little bit. Tell me: you are fond of us?"
"Of course I am, you're a dear, jolly lot. But Mathilde . . ."
"What about Mathilde, Uncle?"
He bent over her and bit each word separately into her ear:
"I—can't—stand—her. . . . I hate her as I have never hated anybody."
"But, Uncle, that's overdoing it," said Gerdy, lapsing into reasonableness.
