I ran breathlessly and recklessly into the room where my father and mother had received me.
They were both sitting there still.

I ran up to them, wringing my hands, and crying out in a passion of tears: "Is Uncle George dead ?" My mother gave a scream that terrified me into instant silence and stillness.

My father looked at her for a moment, rang the bell that summoned the maid, then seized me roughly by the arm and dragged me out of the room.
He took me down into the study, seated himself in his accustomed chair, and put me before him between his knees.

His lips were awfully white, and I felt his two hands, as they grasped my shoulders, shaking violently.
"You are never to mention the name of Uncle George again," he said, in a quick, angry, trembling whisper.

"Never to me, never to your mother, never to your aunt, never to anybody in this world! Never--never--never!" The repetition of the word terrified me even more than the suppressed vehemence with which he spoke.