Small nods again.

“That’s right.  Live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning by his foolish example.  That’s the use of such a friend.  The only use you can put him to,” says the venerable sage.

His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table.  The four old faces then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs. Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trivets and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught.

“Yes, yes,” says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of wisdom.  “That’s such advice as your father would have given you, Bart.  You never saw your father.  More’s the pity.  He was my true son.”  Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.

“He was my true son,” repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and butter on his knee, “a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago.”

Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with “Fifteen hundred pound.  Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!” Her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered.  His appearance, after visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishness, secondly because he mutters violent imprecations against Mrs. Smallweed, and thirdly because the contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if he could.  All this, however, is so common in the Smallweed family circle that it produces no impression.  The old gentleman is merely shaken and has his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is restored to its usual place beside him, and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin.

Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentleman is sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then he mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth but the trivets.  As thus:  “If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money—­you brimstone chatterer!—­but just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for, through many a year—­you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do