now, at dinner-time that night, in the dining-room of the commodious and well-appointed mansion of the youngest and richest of the etches, uncle dan stood waiting and waiting for his host and hostess to appear. he was wearing a turkish tasselled smoking-cap to cover his baldness, and he had taken off his jacket and put on his light, loose overcoat instead of it, since that was a comfortable habit of his.

he sent one of the two parlourmaids upstairs for his carpet slippers out of the carpet-bag, and he passed part of the time in changing his boots for his slippers in front of the fire. then at length, just as a maid was staggering out under the load of those enormous boots, harold appeared, very correct, but alone.

'awfully sorry to keep you waiting, uncle,' said harold, 'but maud isn't well. she isn't coming down tonight.'

'what's up wi' maud?'

'oh, goodness knows!' responded harold gloomily. 'she's not well—that's all.'

'h'm!' said dan. 'well, let's peck a bit.'

so they sat down and began to peck a bit, aided by the two maids. dan pecked with prodigious enthusiasm, but harold was not in good pecking form. and as the dinner progressed, and harold sent dish after dish up to his wife, and his wife returned dish after dish untouched, harold's gloom communicated itself to the house in general.

one felt that if one had penetrated to the farthest corner of the farthest attic, a little parcel of spiritual gloom would have already arrived there. the sense of disaster was in the abode. the cook was prophesying like anything in the kitchen. durand in the garage was meditating upon such of his master's pithy remarks as he had been able to understand.

when the dinner was over, and the coffee and liqueurs and cigars had been served, and the two maids had left the dining-room, dan turned to his grandnephew and said—

'there's things as has changed since my time, lad, but human nature inna' one on em.'

'what do you mean, uncle?' harold asked awkwardly, self-consciously.

'i mean as thou'rt a dashed foo'!'

'why?'

'but thou'lt get better o' that,' said dan.

harold smiled sheepishly.

'i don't know what you're driving at, uncle,' said he.

'yes, thou dost, lad. thou'st been and quarrelled wi' maud. and i say thou'rt a dashed foo'!'

'as a matter of fact—' harold stammered.

'and ye've never quarrelled afore. this is th' fust time. and so thou'st under th' impression that th' world's come to an end. well, th' fust quarrel were bound to come sooner or later.'

'it isn't really a quarrel—it's about nothing—'

'i know—i know,' dan broke in. 'they always are. as for it not being a quarrel, lad, call it a picnic if thou'st a mind. but heir's sulking upstairs, and thou'rt sulking down here.'

'she was cross about the petrol,' said harold, glad to relieve his mind. 'i hadn't a notion she was cross till i went up into the bedroom. not a notion! i explained to her it wasn't my fault. i argued it out with her very calmly. i did my best to reason with her—'

'listen here, young 'un,' dan interrupted him. 'how old art?'

'twenty-three.'

'thou may'st live another fifty years. if thou'st a mind to spend 'em i' peace, thoud'st better give up reasoning wi' women. give it up right now! it's worse nor drink, as a habit. kiss 'em, cuddle 'em, beat 'em. but dunna' reason wi' 'em.'

'what should you have done in my place?' harold asked.

'i should ha' told maud her was quite right.'

'but she wasn't.'

'then i should ha' winked at mysen i' th' glass,' continued dan, 'and kissed her.'

'that's all very well—'

'naturally,' said dan, 'her wanted to show off that car i' front o' me. that was but natural. and her was vexed when it went wrong.'

'but i told her—i explained to her.'

'her's a handsome little wench,' dan proceeded. 'and a good heart. but thou'st got ten times her brains, lad, and thou ought'st to ha' given in.'

'but i can't always be—'

'it's allus them as gives in as has their own way. i remember her grandfather—he was th' eldest o' us—he quarrelled wi' his wife afore they'd been married a week, and she raced him all over th' town wi' a besom—'

'with a besom, uncle?' exclaimed harold, shocked at these family disclosures.

'wi' a besom,' said dan. that come o' reasoning wi' a woman. it taught him a lesson, i can tell thee. and afterwards he always said as nowt was worth a quarrel—nowt! and it isna'.'

'i don't think maud will race me all over the town with a besom,' harold remarked reflectively.

'there's worse things nor that,' said dan. 'look thee here, get out o' th' house for a' 'our. go to th' conservative club, and then come back. dost understand?'

'but what—'

'hook it, lad!' said dan curtly.

and just as harold was leaving the room, like a school-boy, he called him in again.

'i havena' told thee, harold, as i'm subject to attacks. i'm getting up in years. i go off like. it isna' fits, but i go off. and if it should happen while i'm here, dunna' be alarmed.'

'what are we to do?'

'do nothing. i come round in a minute or two. whatever ye do, dunna' give me brandy. it might kill me—so th' doctor says. i'm only telling thee in case.'

'well, i hope you won't have an attack,' said harold.

'it's a hundred to one i dunna',' said dan.

and harold departed.

soon afterwards uncle dan wandered into a kitchen full of servants.

'show me th' missis's bedroom, one on ye,' he said to the crowd.

and presently he was knocking at maud's door.

'maudie!'

'who is it?' came a voice.

'it's thy owd uncle. can'st spare a minute?'

maud appeared at the door, smiling, and arrayed in a peignoir.

'he's gone out,' said dan, implying scorn of the person who had gone out. 'wilt come down-stairs?'

'where's he gone to?' maud demanded.

she didn't even pretend she was ill.

'th' club,' said dan.

and in about a hundred seconds or so he had her in the drawing-room, and she was actually pouring out gin for him. she looked ravishing in that peignoir, especially as she was munching an apple, and balancing herself on the arm of a chair.

'so he's been quarrelling with ye, maud?' dan began.

'no; not quarrelling, uncle.'

'well, call it what ye'n a mind,' said dan. 'call it a prayer-meeting. i didn't notice as ye came down for supper—dinner, as ye call it.'

'it was like this, uncle,' she said. 'poor harry was very angry with himself about that petrol. of course, he wanted the car to go well while you were in it; and he came up-stairs and grumbled at me for leaving him all alone and driving home with you.'

'oh, did he?' exclaimed dan.

'yes. i explained to him that of course i couldn't leave you all alone. then he got hot. i kept quite calm. i reasoned it out with him as quietly as i could—'

'maudie, maudie,' protested the old man, 'thou'rt th' prettiest wench i' this town, though i am thy great-uncle, and thou'st got plenty o' brains—a sight more than that husband o' thine.'

'do you think so, uncle?'

'aye, but thou hasna' made use o' 'em tonight. thou'rt a foolish wench, wench. at thy time o' life, and after a year o' th' married state, thou ought'st to know better than reason wi' a man in a temper.'

'but, really, uncle, it was so absurd of harold, wasn't it?'

'aye!' said dan. 'but why didst-na' give in and kiss him, and smack his face for him?'

'there was nothing to give in about, uncle.'

'there never is,' said dan. 'there never is. that's the point. still, thou'rt nigh crying, wench.'

'i'm not, uncle,' she contradicted, the tears falling on to the apple.

'and harold's using bad language all up trafalgar road, i lay,' dan added.

'it was all harold's fault,' said maud.

'why, in course it were harold's fault. but nowt's worth a quarrel, my dear—nowt. i remember harold's grandfeyther—he were th' second of us, your grandfeyther were the eldest, and i were the youngest—i remember harold's grandfeyther chasing his wife all over th' town wi' a besom a week after they were married.'

'with a besom!' murmured maud, pained and forgetting to cry. 'harold's grandfather, not mine?'

'wi' a besom,' dan repeated, nodding. 'they never quarrelled again—ne'er again. th' old woman allus said after that as quarrels were for fools. and her was right.'

'i don't see harold chasing me across bursley with a besom,' said maud primly. 'but what you say is quite right, you dear old uncle. men are queer—i mean husbands. you can't argue with them. you'd much better give in—'

'and have your own way after all.'

'and perhaps harold was—'

harold's step could be heard in the hall.

'oh, dear!' cried maud. 'what shall i do?'

'i'm not feeling very well,' whispered uncle dan weakly. 'i have these 'ere attacks sometimes. there's only one thing as'll do me any good—brandy.'

and his head fell over one side of the chair, and he looked precisely like a corpse.

'maud, what are you doing?' almost shouted harold, when he came into the room.

she was putting a liqueur-glass to uncle dan's lips.

'oh, harold,' she cried, 'uncle's had an attack of some sort. i'm giving him some brandy.'

'but you mustn't give him brandy,' said harold authoritatively to her.

'but i must give him brandy,' said maud. 'he told me that brandy was the only thing to save him.'

'nonsense, child!' harold persisted. 'uncle told me all about these attacks. they're perfectly harmless so long as he doesn't have brandy. the doctors have warned him that brandy will be fatal.'

'harold, you are absolutely mistaken. don't you understand that uncle has only this minute told me that he must have brandy?'

and she again approached the glass to the pale lips of the old man. his tasselled turkish smoking-cap had fallen to the floor, and the hemisphere of his bald head glittered under the gas.

'maud, i forbid you!' and harold put a hand on the glass. 'it's a matter of life and death. you must have misunderstood uncle.'

'it was you who misunderstood uncle,' said maud. 'of course, if you mean to prevent me by brute force—'

they both paused and glanced at daniel, and then at each other.

'perhaps you are right, dearest,' said harold, in a new tone.

'no, dearest,' said maud, also in a new tone. 'i expect you are right. i must have misunderstood.'

'no, no, maud. give him the brandy by all means. i've no doubt you're right.'

'but if you think i'd better not give it him—'

'but i would prefer you to give it him, dearest. it isn't likely you would be mistaken in a thing like that.'

'i would prefer to be guided by you, dearest,' said maud.

so they went on for several minutes, each giving way to the other in the most angelic manner.

'and meantime i'm supposed to be dying, am i?' roared uncle dan, suddenly sitting up. 'you'd let th' old uncle peg out while you practise his precepts! a nice pair you make! i thought for see which on ye' ud' give way to th' other, but i didna' anticipate as both on ye 'ud be ready to sacrifice my life for th' sake o' domestic peace.'

'but, uncle,' they both said later, amid the universal and yet rather shamefaced peace rejoicings, 'you said nothing was worth a quarrel.'

'and i was right,' answered dan; 'i was right. th' divorce court is full o' fools as have begun married life by trying to convince the other fool, instead o' humouring him—or her. kiss us, maud.'