Grimshaw went back to London to pack up his traps, and on the following Tuesday dined with his maternal uncle, Sir Dion Titherage, at the Parthenon. Sir Dion, lately raised to the dignity of knighthood, with an excellent practice in Belgravia, chiefly amongst elderly ladies, had paid—as has been said—for his nephew’s schooling, and regarded the young man with a paternal eye. Long ago Sir Dion had led to the altar of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, one of his well-to-do patients, much older than himself. There had been no children. Lady Titherage was now a confirmed hypochondriac, but likely to make old bones, thanks to the ministering care and skill of that optimist, her husband.

A small table at the farther end of the immense dining-room had been reserved for Sir Dion and his guest. Through a big window a glimpse could be obtained of lawn and trees, and, beyond, the faÇade of a famous terrace. Dining at such a table, a member of the learned professions could reflect pleasantly upon the fact that the privileged occupiers of that terrace must each possess, on a reasonable average, at least twenty thousand a year. But few members of the Parthenon dined at their club. Here and there, oases in the desert, were bishops, who contented themselves with simple fare. Sir Dion pointed out these pillars of the Establishment, a Royal Academician, a hanging judge, an eminent architect, and the club bore, who dined at the Parthenon nearly every night, and kept sensitive and retiring members at bay. Sir Dion said, with a chuckle:

“I don’t dare dine here without a guest, my boy; and even then he yaps at me—he yaps at me. Really, it’s a sad breach of our unwritten rules. This is recognised as a Temple of Silence and Snooze. Conversation is very properly barred.”

Grimshaw laughed. His uncle amused him. Sir Dion continued:

“We only wake up at the club elections in the drawing-room. A lot of pilling goes on. I asked one old boy to pill a particularly aggressive candidate, and he said curtly: ‘Why?’ I replied, ‘Because he’s a cantankerous, unclubbable ass.’ The old boy scowled at me and said savagely: ‘I’m a cantankerous, unclubbable ass, and I shall vote for him.’ And he did!”

A carefully chosen dinner was provided, admirably cooked. Sir Dion, after the ice, took a Corona de Corona cigar from his ample case, and sent it to the chef with his compliments and thanks. And he exchanged a joke with the steward when he settled his bill before leaving the dining-room.

Not till he had finished his coffee did Sir Dion speak seriously.

“So it’s the parish pump for you, eh?”

“With the pump out of order.”

Sir Dion nodded. Then he said, portentously for him:

“You are your father’s son. He tilted against windmills all his life, poor dear fellow! As a schoolmaster he would have climbed high and ended as a bishop. I used to offer him sound advice, although, to do him justice, he never asked for it or took it. Now I am tempted to say a word or two to you.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“From what you tell me you seem to like trouble. I don’t. That, of course, is the essential difference between us. However, your partner, Pawley, seems to have a good practice amongst country people. And, when he retires, you ought to earn a decent income.”

“I hope so.”

“A good country practice is not to be sneezed at, but you will sneeze at it, I’m afraid. I see you trying to drain that snipe-bog you mention instead of keeping step on the high-road with Pawley.”

“I shall fight for more sanitary conditions.”

“Stripped already, I see. And up against a lady of quality! Now for my two words: ‘Go slow!’ Women never surrender their opinions to men they dislike. It’s a pity you can’t marry her and reach your objectives that way. What? Fifty-five! And a marriageable daughter! Another tip. Don’t make up to the daughter. Unless——” He chuckled, lighting a fresh cigar.

“Unless——?”

“I remember some transpontine story of a stout fellow like you who courted a rich widow with a pretty daughter. The rich widow accused the stout fellow of loving her money-bags more than herself. He made a very creditable bluff. Told her to deed every dollar she possessed to her daughter. And, begad! she called the bluff and did so. Then he bolted with the daughter!”

The evening ended where it began—in laughter.

On the steps of the Parthenon, when the nephew thanked the uncle for his entertainment, Sir Dion shook his hand very heartily.

“I wish you luck, my boy. If you get any of that rough shooting, send me a bird. I like the flavour of a wild pheasant. God bless you!”

Grimshaw, as he went back to his modest diggings, reflected that Sir Dion’s ways were not his, and yet the old fellow brimmed over with kindness, and assuredly attained his objectives.