Positively there was no mirror in the salon.

Instead of it, there were nothing but distressingly bright pictures by artists who had had the bad taste to paint raw Nature just as they saw it.

My uncle entered, and quite overwhelmed me with a robust cordiality which seemed to ignore my grief.

“Just in time, my boy,” said he, “to take a cut of rare roast beef and a hot potato and a mug of your Uncle Sam’s beer with us.”

I shuddered, and rebuked him with the intelligence that I had just lunched at the club, and should not dine till six.

Then I stated my business, curtly.

He looked at me with a stare, which I have frequently observed in persons of limited intelligence.

“So you want to gamble away your mother’s last dollar,” said he.

In vain I stated and restated to him my plans.  The fellow, evidently jealous of my superior financial ability, constantly interrupted me with ejaculations of “Pish!” “Bosh!” “Pshaw!” “No go!” and finally, with a loud thump on a table, covered with such costly but valueless objects as books and plates, he cried,

“What a d—­d fool!”

I was glad to perceive that he began to admit my wisdom and his stolidity.  And so I told him.

“A—–­,” said he, using my abhorred name in full, “I believe you are a greater ass than your father was.”

“Sir,” said I, much displeased, “these intemperate ebullitions will necessarily terminate our conference.”

“Conference be hanged!” he rejoined.  “You may as well give it up.  You are not going to get the first red cent out of me.”

“Have I referred, Sir,” said I, “to the inelegant coin you name?”

The creature grinned.  “I shall pay your mother’s income quarterly, and do the best I can by her,” he continued; “and if you want to make a man of yourself, I’ll give you a chance in the bakery with me; or Sam Bratley will take you into his brewery; or Bob into his pork-packery.”

I checked my indignation.  The vulgarian wished to drag me, a Chylde, down to the Bratley level.  But I suppressed my wrath, for fear he might find some pretext for suppressing the quarterly income, and alleged my delicate health as a reason for my refusing his insulting offer.

“Well,” said he, “I don’t see as there is anything else for you to do, except to find some woman fool enough to marry you, as Betsey did your father.  There’s a hundred dollars!”

I have seldom seen dirtier bills than those he produced and handed to me.  Fortunately I was in deep mourning and my gloves were dark lead color.

“That’s right,” says he,—­“grab ’em and fob ’em.  Now go to Newport and try for an heiress, and don’t let me see your tallow face inside of my door for a year.”

He had bought the right to be despotic and abusive.  I withdrew and departed, ruminating on his advice.  Singularly, I had not before thought of marrying.  I resolved to do so at once.