He made it _grow_. And no amount
of Aunt Emilies in the world could stop him.
Their father felt no jealousy. When the story-hour came round, he
produced a set of sentences he kept slyly up his sleeve for the
occasion. "Ask your Uncle Felix; he's better at stories and things
than I am. It's his business." This was the model. A variation ran:
"Oh, don't bother me just now, children. I've got a lot of figures to
digest." But the shortest version was simply, "Run and plague your
uncle. I'm too busy."
"Try Mother" was used when Uncle Felix was in hiding. Only it had no
result. Mother's mind was too diffuse to carry conviction. It was
soaked in servants and things. In another sense it was too exact. The
ingredients of her stories were like a cooking recipe. Besides, hers
was the unpardonable fault of never forgetting the time. On the very
stroke of the clock she broke off abruptly with "Now it's bed-time;
you shall hear the rest another night." Daddy forgot, or pleaded for
"ten minutes more." Uncle Felix, however, said flatly, "They can't go
till it's finished"--and he meant it. His voice was deep and gruff--
"like a dog's," according to Maria--and his laugh was like a horse's
neigh; it made the china rattle.
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