“‘Fraid I’d say something AT it George, if I did. So he won’t let me. It came on quite suddenly. Brooding he was and writing letters and sizzling something awful—like a chestnut going to pop. Then he came home one day saying Tono-Bungay till I thought he was clean off his onion, and singing—what was it?” “‘I’m afloat, I’m afloat,’” I guessed. “The very thing. You’ve heard him. And saying our fortunes were made. Took me out to the Ho’burm Restaurant, George,—dinner, and we had champagne, stuff that blows up the back of your nose and makes you go _So_, and he said at last he’d got things worthy of me—and we moved here next day. It’s a swell house, George. Three pounds a week for the rooms. And he says the Business’ll stand it.” She looked at me doubtfully. “Either do that or smash,” I said profoundly. We discussed the question for a moment mutely with our eyes. My aunt slapped the pile of books from Mudie’s. “I’ve been having such a Go of reading, George. You never did!” “What do you think of the business?” I asked. “Well, they’ve let him have money,” she said, and thought and raised her eyebrows. “It’s been a time,” she went on. “The flapping about! Me sitting doing nothing and him on the go like a rocket. He’s done wonders. But he wants you, George—he wants you. Sometimes he’s full of hope—talks of when we’re going to have a carriage and be in society—makes it seem so natural and topsy-turvy, I hardly know whether my old heels aren’t up here listening to him, and my old head on the floor.... Then he gets depressed. Says he wants restraint. Says he can make a splash but can’t keep on. Says if you don’t come in everything will smash—But you are coming in?” She paused and looked at me. “Well—” “You don’t say you won’t come in!” “But look here, aunt,” I said, “do you understand quite?... It’s a quack medicine. It’s trash.” “There’s no law against selling quack medicine that I know of,” said my aunt. She thought for a minute and became unusually grave. “It’s our only chance, George,” she said. “If it doesn’t go...” There came the slamming of a door, and a loud bellowing from the next apartment through the folding doors. “Here-er Shee _Rulk_ lies _Poo_ Tom Bo—oling.” “Silly old Concertina! Hark at him, George!” She raised her voice. “Don’t sing that, you old Walrus, you! Sing ‘I’m afloat!’” One leaf of the folding doors opened and my uncle appeared. “Hullo, George! Come along at last? Gossome tea-cake, Susan?” “Thought it over George?” he said abruptly. “Yes,” said I. “Coming in?” I paused for a last moment and nodded yes. “Ah!” he cried. “Why couldn’t you say that a week ago?” “I’ve had false ideas about the world,” I said. “Oh! they don’t matter now! Yes, I’ll come, I’ll take my chance with you, I won’t hesitate again.” And I didn’t. I stuck to that resolution for seven long years. CHAPTER THE THIRD HOW WE MADE TONO-BUNGAY HUM I