, with all the vehemence of which I
was capable, this attempt to assume an intimacy which, notwithstanding my
uncle's opinion to the contrary, seemed to me like an outrage.

Milly found me alone--not frightened, but very angry. I had quite made up
my mind to complain to my uncle, but the Curate was still with him; and,
by the time he had gone, I was cooler. My awe of my uncle had returned. I
fancied that he would treat the whole affair as a mere playful piece of
gallantry. So, with the comfortable conviction that he had had a lesson,
and would think twice before repeating his impertinence, I resolved, with
Milly's approbation, to leave matters as they were.

Dudley, greatly to my comfort, was huffed with me, and hardly appeared, and
was sulky and silent when he did. I lived then in the pleasant anticipation
of his departure, which, Milly thought, would be very soon.

My uncle had his Bible and his consolations; but it cannot have been
pleasant to this old _roue_, converted though he was--this refined man
of fashion--to see his son grow up an outcast, and a Tony Lumpkin; for
whatever he may have thought of his natural gifts, he must have known how
mere a boor he was.

I try to recall my then impressions of my uncle's character. Grizzly and
chaotic the image rises--silver head, feet of clay. I as yet knew little of
him.

I began to perceive that he was what Mary Quince used to call 'dreadful
particular'--I suppose a little selfish and impatient. He used to get cases
of turtle from Liverpool. He drank claret and hock for his health, and ate
woodcock and other light and salutary dainties for the same reason; and
was petulant and vicious about the cooking of these, and the flavour and
clearness of his coffee.

His conversation was easy, polished, and, with a sentimental glazing, cold;
but across this artificial talk, with its French rhymes, racy phrases,
and fluent eloquence, like a streak of angry light, would, at intervals,
suddenly gleam some dismal thought of religion. I never could quite satisfy
myself whether they were affectations or genuine, like intermittent thrills
of pain.

The light of his large eyes was very peculiar. I can liken it to nothing
but the sheen of intense moonlight on burnished metal. But that cannot
express it. It glared white and suddenly--almost fatuous. I thought of
Moore's lines whenever I looked on it:--

Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold