But where has my story got to? My uncle, I say, decided I must be shown London, and out we three went as soon as my aunt had got her hat on, to catch all that was left of the day. VI It pleased my uncle extremely to find I had never seen London before. He took possession of the metropolis forthwith. “London, George,” he said, “takes a lot of understanding. It’s a great place. Immense. The richest town in the world, the biggest port, the greatest manufacturing town, the Imperial city—the centre of civilisation, the heart of the world! See those sandwich men down there! That third one’s hat! Fair treat! You don’t see poverty like that in Wimblehurst George! And many of them high Oxford honour men too. Brought down by drink! It’s a wonderful place, George—a whirlpool, a maelstrom! whirls you up and whirls you down.” I have a very confused memory of that afternoon’s inspection of London. My uncle took us to and fro showing us over his London, talking erratically, following a route of his own. Sometimes we were walking, sometimes we were on the tops of great staggering horse omnibuses in a heaving jumble of traffic, and at one point we had tea in an Aerated Bread Shop. But I remember very distinctly how we passed down Park Lane under an overcast sky, and how my uncle pointed out the house of this child of good fortune and that with succulent appreciation. I remember, too, that as he talked I would find my aunt watching my face as if to check the soundness of his talk by my expression. “Been in love yet, George?” she asked suddenly, over a bun in the tea-shop. “Too busy, aunt,” I told her. She bit her bun extensively, and gesticulated with the remnant to indicate that she had more to say. “How are _you_ going to make your fortune?” she said so soon as she could speak again. “You haven’t told us that.” “’Lectricity,” said my uncle, taking breath after a deep draught of tea. “If I make it at all,” I said. “For my part I think shall be satisfied with something less than a fortune.” “We’re going to make ours—suddenly,” she said. “So _he_ old says.” She jerked her head at my uncle. “He won’t tell me when—so I can’t get anything ready. But it’s coming. Going to ride in our carriage and have a garden. Garden—like a bishop’s.” She finished her bun and twiddled crumbs from her fingers. “I shall be glad of the garden,” she said. “It’s going to be a real big one with rosaries and things. Fountains in it. Pampas grass. Hothouses.” “You’ll get it all right,” said my uncle, who had reddened a little. “Grey horses in the carriage, George,” she said. “It’s nice to think about when one’s dull. And dinners in restaurants often and often. And theatres—in the stalls. And money and money and money.” “You may joke,” said my uncle, and hummed for a moment. “Just as though an old Porpoise like him would ever make money,” she said, turning her eyes upon his profile with a sudden lapse to affection. “He’ll just porpoise about.”