and papers relating to his Commentary on Shakespeare had been recently put in order. Ernest's clothes, his tie, even his studs, were black. There were dark shadows below his eyes. Their expression, however, was gentle as they rested on Finch.
He said, rather nervously: "Come in, come in. I'm not going to keep you." He really meant: "But please don't stay long." He fidgeted to the window and settled the blind.
Finch tried to smile without grinning, to look sympathetic without looking lugubrious. His features had never felt so large and so difficult to control.
"I'm afraid," said his uncle, hesitatingly, "that we—that I—all of us, indeed, have been too hard on you, I feel sure that there is nothing underhand in you, Finch. You simply didn't realize the danger to my mother's health in such late hours. I think I remember saying that it had killed her. In my excitement I may have said even worse things. I don't remember. I do remember hearing someone say that you were no better than a murderer. But I think that was your aunt. I don't think I said that."
"No. You just said I'd shortened her life."
Ernest flushed. "Yes. That was it. . . . I'm sorry, my dear, that I said that. It is quite probably not true. She was quite old—very old, in fact—she might have died in any case."
"Uncle Ernie," burst out Finch, "I had rather any one of you had got Gran's money than me! I tell you, it's a torture to me!"
Ernest smiled bleakly. "You will get over that feeling. It will be wonderful for you. Open the world before you very beautifully. It's an exhilarating thing for a young man to have money, it is indeed. My father was very generous with me when I was a young man. I had a very good time, but I was foolish, credulous. It slipped through my fingers. I want you to take better care of—your money." He pronounced the last two words with an uncontrollable wryness, as of one who had set his teeth into bitter fruit.
Finch gulped, then said in a shaky voice: "There's
