be that you will advance her a little money and get her into your power, and then will send her down there to the Hutches, where all the spirit and originality and genius will be crushed out of her work, and she will become a hat-writer like the rest of them—­for Meeson’s is a strictly commercial undertaking, you know, and Meeson’s public don’t like genius, they like their literature dull and holy!—­and it’s an infernal shame! that’s what it is, uncle!” and the young man, whose blue eyes were by this time flashing fire, for he had worked himself up as he went along, brought his fist down with a bang upon the writing table by way of emphasising his words.

“Have you done?” said his uncle.

“Yes, I’ve done; and I hope that I have put it plain.”

“Very well; and now might I ask you, supposing that you should ever come to manage this business, if your sentiments accurately represent the system upon which you would proceed?”

“Of course they do.  I am not going to turn cheat for anybody.”

“Thank you.  They seem to have taught you the art of plain speaking up at Oxford—­though, it appears,” with a sneer, “they taught you very little else.  Well, then, now it is my turn to speak; and I tell you what it is, young man, you will either instantly beg my pardon for what you have said, or you will leave Meeson’s for good and all.”

“I won’t beg your pardon for speaking the truth,” said Eustace, hotly:  “the fact is that here you never hear the truth; all these poor devils creep and crawl about you, and daren’t call their souls their own.  I shall be devilish glad to get out of this place, I can tell you.  All this chickery and pokery makes me sick.  The place stinks and reeks of sharp practice and money-making—­money-making by fair means or foul.”

The elder man had, up till now, at all events to outward appearance, kept his temper; but this last flower of vigorous English was altogether too much for one whom the possession of so much money had for many years shielded from hearing unpleasant truths put roughly.  The man’s face grew like a devil’s, his thick eyebrows contracted themselves, and his pale lips quivered with fury.  For a few seconds he could not speak, so great was his emotion.  When, at length, he did, his voice was as thick and laden with rage as a dense mist is with rain.

“You impudent young rascal!” he began, “you ungrateful foundling!  Do you suppose that when my brother left you to starve—­which was all that you were fit for—­I picked you out of the gutter for this:  that you should have the insolence to come and tell me how to conduct my business?  Now, young man, I’ll just tell you what it is.  You can be off and conduct a business of your own on whatever principles you choose.  Get out of Meeson’s, Sir; and never dare to show your nose here again, or I’ll give the porters orders to hustle you off the premises!  And, now, that isn’t all.  I’ve done with you, never you look to me for another sixpence!