packing?"

"Yes," said Mr. Carmyle, shortly. For the first time in his life he was
conscious of that sensation of furtive guilt which was habitual with his
cousin Ginger when in the presence of this large, mackerel-eyed man.

"You going away?"

"Yes."

"Where you going?"

"America."

"When you going?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Why you going?"

This dialogue has been set down as though it had been as brisk and
snappy as any cross-talk between vaudeville comedians, but in reality
Uncle Donald's peculiar methods of conversation had stretched it over
a period of nearly three minutes: for after each reply and before each
question he had puffed and sighed and inhaled his moustache with
such painful deliberation that his companion's nerves were finding it
difficult to bear up under the strain.

"You're going after that girl," said Uncle Donald, accusingly.

Bruce Carmyle flushed darkly. And it is interesting to record that at
this moment there flitted through his mind the thought that Ginger's
behaviour at Bleke's Coffee House, on a certain notable occasion, had
not been so utterly inexcusable as he had supposed. There was no doubt
that the Family's Chosen One could be trying.

"Will you have a whisky and soda, Uncle Donald?" he said, by way of
changing the conversation.

"Yes," said his relative, in pursuance of a vow he had made in the early
eighties never to refuse an offer of this kind. "Gimme!"

You would have thought that that would have put matters on a pleasanter
footing. But no. Having lapped up the restorative, Uncle Donald returned
to the attack quite un-softened.

"Never thought you were a fool before," he said severely.

Bruce Carmyle's proud spirit chafed. This sort of interview, which had
become a commonplace with his cousin Ginger, was new to him. Hitherto,
his actions had received neither criticism nor been subjected to it.

"I'm not a fool."

"You are a fool. A damn fool," continued Uncle Donald, specifying more
exactly. "Don't like the girl. Never did. Not a nice girl. Didn't like
her. Right from the first."

"Need we discuss this?" said Bruce Carmyle, dropping, as he was apt to
do, into the grand manner.

The Head of the Family drank in a layer of moustache and blew it out
again.

"Need we discuss it?" he said with asperity. "We're going to discuss it!
Whatch think I climbed all these blasted stairs for with my weak heart?
Gimme another!"

Mr. Carmyle gave him another.

"'S a