“Lancelot!” exploded Uncle Donald, quivering all over like a smitten jelly at the loathed name. “Well, that shows you what sort of a girl she is. Any girl that would be a friend of... Unpack!” “I beg your pardon?” “Unpack! Mustn't go on with this foolery. Out of the question. Find some girl make you a good wife. Your aunt Mary's been meeting some people name of Bassington-Bassington, related Kent Bassington-Bassingtons... eldest daughter charming girl, just do for you.” Outside the pages of the more old-fashioned type of fiction nobody ever really ground his teeth, but Bruce Carmyle came nearer to it at that moment than anyone had ever come before. He scowled blackly, and the last trace of suavity left him. “I shall do nothing of the kind,” he said briefly. “I sail to-morrow.” Uncle Donald had had a previous experience of being defied by a nephew, but it had not accustomed him to the sensation. He was aware of an unpleasant feeling of impotence. Nothing is harder than to know what to do next when defied. “Eh?” he said. Mr. Carmyle having started to defy, evidently decided to make a good job of it. “I am over twenty-one,” said he. “I am financially independent. I shall do as I please.” “But, consider!” pleaded Uncle Donald, painfully conscious of the weakness of his words. “Reflect!” “I have reflected.” “Your position in the county...” “I've thought of that.” “You could marry anyone you pleased.” “I'm going to.” “You are determined to go running off to God-knows-where after this Miss I-can't-even-remember-her-dam-name?” “Yes.” “Have you considered,” said Uncle Donald, portentously, “that you owe a duty to the Family.” Bruce Carmyle's patience snapped and he sank like a stone to absolutely Gingerian depths of plain-spokenness. “Oh, damn the Family!” he cried. There was a painful silence, broken only by the relieved sigh of the armchair as Uncle Donald heaved himself out of it. “After that,” said Uncle Donald, “I have nothing more to say.” “Good!” said Mr. Carmyle rudely, lost to all shame. “'Cept this. If you come back married to that girl, I'll cut you in Piccadilly. By George, I will!” He moved to the door. Bruce Carmyle looked down his nose without speaking. A tense moment. “What,” asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, “did you say it was called?” “What was what called?” “That whisky.” “O'Rafferty Special.” “And wherj get it?” “Bilby's, in Oxford Street.” “I'll make a note of it,” said Uncle Donald. CHAPTER XVI. AT THE FLOWER GARDEN 1 “And after all I've done for her,” said Mr. Reginald Cracknell, his voice tremulous with self-pity and his eyes moist with the combined effects of anguish and over-indulgence in his celebrated private stock, “after all I've done for her she throws me down.”