e was a grouch toter. But that's just his way.
It's all on the outside. Back of that gruff, offhand talk and behind
them bushy, gray eyebrows there's a lot of fun and good nature. One of
the kind that's never seemed to grow up, Uncle Kyrle is, sixty-odd and
still a kid; always springin' some josh or other, and disguisin' the
good turns he does with foolish remarks. And to hear him string Aunt
Martha along from one thing to another is sure a circus.

"Good morning, Sister Martha," says he, blowin' in to a late Sunday
breakfast, all pinked up in the cheeks from a cold tub and a clean
shave. "I trust that you begin the day with a deep conviction of sin?"

"Why, I--I suppose I do, Kyrle," says she, gettin' fussed. "That is, I
try to."

"Good!" says Uncle Kyrle. "It is important that some one in this family
should recognize that this is a sad and wicked world, with Virtue below
par and Honest Worth going baggy at the knees. Zenobia here has no
conviction of sin whatever. Mine is rather weak at times. So you,
Martha, must do the piety for all of us. And please ring for the griddle
cakes and sausage."

Then he winks at Zenobia, gives his grapefruit a sherry bath, and
proceeds to tackle a hearty breakfast.

A few days after him and Zenobia got back from their runaway honeymoon
trip he calls her to the front door. "There's a person out here who says
he has a car for you," says he.

"Nonsense!" says Zenobia. "Why, I haven't ordered a car."

"The impudent rascal!" says Uncle Kyrle. "I'll send him off, then. The
idea!"

"Oh, but isn't it a beauty?" says Zenobia, peekin' out. "Let's see what
he says about it first."

So they go out to the curb, while Uncle Kyrle demands violent of the
young chap in charge what he means by such an outrage. At which the
party grins and shows the tag on the steerin' wheel.

"Why!" says Zenobia. "It has my name on it. Oh, Kyrle, you dear man!
I've a notion to hug you."

"Tut, tut!" says he. "Such a bad example to set the neighbors! Besides,
this young man may object. He has a Y. M. C. A. certificate as a
first-class chauffeur."

That's the way he springs on Aunt Zenobia an imported landaulet, this
year's model, all complete even to monogrammed laprobes and a morocco
vanity case in the tonneau. It's one of these low-hung French cars, with
an eight-cylinder motor that runs as sweet as the purr of a kitten.

Then here Sunday noon he takes me one side confidential. "Torchy," says
he, "could