The client was a meagre matron of forty-five, or thereabouts.  Her dark scant hair was smooth, and divided down the middle.  Acerbity spoke in every line of her face, which was of a dusky yellow, where it did not rather verge on the faint hues of a violet past its prime.  She wore thread gloves, and she carried a battered reticule of early Victorian days, in which Merton suspected that tracts were lurking.  She had an anxious peevish mouth; in truth she was not the kind of client in whom Merton’s heart delighted.

And yet he was sorry for her, especially as her rich uncle’s cook was the goddess of the gentleman whose god had just been denounced in scriptural terms by the client, a Mrs. Gisborne.  She was sad, as well she might be, for she was a struggler, with a large family, and great expectations from the polytheistic uncle who adored his cook and one of his nobler organs.

’What has his history been, this gentleman’s—­Mr. Fulton, I think you called him?’

‘He was a drysalter in the City, sir,’ and across Merton’s mind flitted a vision of a dark shop with Finnan haddocks, bacon, and tongues in the window, and smelling terribly of cheese.

‘Oh, a drysalter?’ he said, not daring to display ignorance by asking questions to corroborate his theory of the drysalting business.

‘A drysalter, sir, and isinglass importer.’

Merton was conscious of vagueness as to isinglass, and was distantly reminded of a celebrated racehorse.  However, it was clear that Mr. Fulton was a retired tradesman of some kind.  ’He went out of isinglass—­before the cheap scientific substitute was invented (it is made out of old quill pens)—­with seventy-five thousand pounds.  And it ought to come to my children.  He has not another relation living but ourselves; he married my aunt.  But we never see him:  he said that he could not stand our Sunday dinners at Hampstead.’

A feeling not remote from sympathy with Mr. Fulton stole over Merton’s mind as he pictured these festivals.  ‘Is his god very—­voluminous?’

Mrs. Gisborne stared.

‘Is he a very portly gentleman?’

’No, Mr. Graham, he is next door to a skeleton, though you would not expect it, considering.’

‘Considering his devotion to the pleasures of the table?’

’Gluttony, shameful waste I call it.  And he is a stumbling block and a cause of offence to others.  He is a patron of the City and Suburban College of Cookery, and founded two scholarships there, for scholars learning how to pamper the—­’

‘The epicure,’ said Merton.  He knew the City and Suburban College of Cookery.  One of his band, a Miss Frere, was a Fellow and Tutor of that academy.

‘And about what age is your uncle?’ he asked.

‘About sixty, and not a white hair on his head.’

‘Then he may marry his cook?’

‘He will, sir.’

‘And is very likely to have a family.’