The old butterfly-hunter, too, was shy in his more elderly way. Beyond his widowed daughter-in-law and her two children he had scarce an acquaintance, or at least none more familiar than the naturalists in London to whom he sold his specimens. So that now, in presence of this very genteel Mr. Butson, who, he feared, was already disgusted at the humble character of the establishment, he made but a hollow meal. A half-forgotten notion afflicted him, that it was proper to drink tea in only one of two possible ways; but whether from the cup or from the saucer he could not resolve himself. Mr. Butson had finished his tea, so that his example was lacking: though indeed the lees in his saucer seemed to offer a hint—a hint soon triumphantly confirmed by Uncle Isaac, who was nothing averse from a supplementary cup, and who emptied it straightway into his saucer and gulped ardently, glaring fearfully over the edge. Whereat his host drank from the saucer also, and took heed to remember for the future. Still he was uncomfortable, and a little later he almost blushed at detecting himself inhospitably grateful for signs that Mr. Butson began to tire of the visit. Meanwhile he modestly contributed little to the conversation. “No,” said Mr. Butson gloomily after a long pause, and in reply to nothing in particular, “_I_ ain’t a man of property. I wish I was. If people got what they was brought up to—but there!” He stuck his hands lower in his pockets and savagely regarded vacancy. “Mr. Butson’s uncle,” said Uncle Isaac, “is a mayor. A mayor. An’ ’is other relations is of almost equal aristocracy. But ’e won’t ’ave nothin’ to say to ’em, not a word. It’s jist blood—pride o’ breedin’. But what I say is, it may be proper self-respeck, but it ain’t proper self-justice. It ain’t self-justice, in my way o’ puttin’ it. Why ’e won’t even name ’em! Won’t name ’em, Mr. May!” “Won’t he?” the old man answered, rather tamely, “dear, dear!” Mr. Butson laid his head back, jerked his chin, and snorted scorn at the ceiling. “No—won’t as much as name ’em, such is ’is lawfty contemp’. Otherwise, what ’ud be my path of dooty? My path of dooty on behalf of self-justice to Mr. Butson would be to see ’em an’ put a pint o’ argument. ’Ere, I puts it, is ’im, an’ ’ere is me. ’Ere is Mr. ’Enery Butson, your very dootiful relation of fash’nable instinks, an’ a engineer than which none better though much above it, an’ unsuitably enchained by worldly circumstances in the engine-room of a penny steamer.” (Here Mr. Butson snorted again.) “Likewise ’ere is me, a elderly man of some small property, an’ a shipwright of practical experience. Them circumstances bein’ the case, cons’kently, what more nachral an’ proper than a partnership—_with_ capital. That’s ’ow I’d put the pint; a partnership _with_ capital.” “Jus’ so,” said old May. And seeing that the other still paused, he added “Of course.”