“I’ll do something,” said my uncle, “you bet! Zzzz!” and rapped with a shilling on the marble table. “When you do you’ll have to buy me a new pair of gloves,” she said, “anyhow. That finger’s past mending. Look! you Cabbage—you.” And she held the split under his nose, and pulled a face of comical fierceness. My uncle smiled at these sallies at the time, but afterwards, when I went back with him to the Pharmacy—the low-class business grew brisker in the evening and they kept open late—he reverted to it in a low expository tone. “Your aunt’s a bit impatient, George. She gets at me. It’s only natural.... A woman doesn’t understand how long it takes to build up a position. No.... In certain directions now—I am—quietly—building up a position. Now here.... I get this room. I have my three assistants. Zzzz. It’s a position that, judged by the criterion of imeedjit income, isn’t perhaps so good as I deserve, but strategically—yes. It’s what I want. I make my plans. I rally my attack.” “What plans,” I said, “are you making?” “Well, George, there’s one thing you can rely upon, I’m doing nothing in a hurry. I turn over this one and that, and I don’t talk—indiscreetly. There’s—No! I don’t think I can tell you that. And yet, why NOT?” He got up and closed the door into the shop. “I’ve told no one,” he remarked, as he sat down again. “I owe you something.” His face flushed slightly, he leant forward over the little table towards me. “Listen!” he said. I listened. “Tono-Bungay,” said my uncle very slowly and distinctly. I thought he was asking me to hear some remote, strange noise. “I don’t hear anything,” I said reluctantly to his expectant face. He smiled undefeated. “Try again,” he said, and repeated, “Tono-Bungay.” “Oh, _that!_” I said. “Eh?” said he. “But what is it?” “Ah!” said my uncle, rejoicing and expanding. “What _is_ it? That’s what you got to ask? What _won’t_ it be?” He dug me violently in what he supposed to be my ribs. “George,” he cried—“George, watch this place! There’s more to follow.” And that was all I could get from him. That, I believe, was the very first time that the words Tono-Bungay ever heard on earth—unless my uncle indulged in monologues in his chamber—a highly probable thing. Its utterance certainly did not seem to me at the time to mark any sort of epoch, and had I been told this word was the Open Sesame to whatever pride and pleasure the grimy front of London hid from us that evening, I should have laughed aloud. “Coming now to business,” I said after a pause, and with a chill sense of effort; and I opened the question of his trust. My uncle sighed, and leant back in his chair. “I wish I could make all this business as clear to you as it is to me,” he said. “However—Go on! Say what you have to say.” VII