Almost anxiously he looked into his uncle’s face.  There was no meanness there, but neither was there encouragement in that comprehensive brow with its wide sweep of hair.  “Quixotism,” it seemed to say, “has merits, but—­” The room, too, with its wide horizon and tall windows, looking as if it dealt habitually in common-sense, discouraged him.  Innumerable men of breeding and the soundest principles must have bought their wives in here.  It was perfumed with the atmosphere of wisdom and law-calf.  The aroma of Precedent was strong; Shelton swerved his lance, and once more settled down to complete the purchase of his wife.

“I can’t conceive what you’re—­in such a hurry for; you ’re not going to be married till the autumn,” said Mr. Paramor, finishing at last.

Replacing the blue pencil in the rack, he took the red rose from the glass, and sniffed at it.  “Will you come with me as far as Pall Mall?  I ’m going to take an afternoon off; too cold for Lord’s, I suppose?”

They walked into the Strand.

“Have you seen this new play of Borogrove’s?” asked Shelton, as they passed the theatre to which he had been with Halidome.

“I never go to modern plays,” replied Mr. Paramor; “too d—–­d gloomy.”

Shelton glanced at him; he wore his hat rather far back on his head, his eyes haunted the street in front; he had shouldered his umbrella.

“Psychology ’s not in your line, Uncle Ted?”

“Is that what they call putting into words things that can’t be put in words?”

“The French succeed in doing it,” replied Shelton, “and the Russians; why should n’t we?”

Mr. Paramor stopped to look in at a fishmonger’s.

“What’s right for the French and Russians, Dick,” he said “is wrong for us.  When we begin to be real, we only really begin to be false.  I should like to have had the catching of that fellow; let’s send him to your mother.”  He went in and bought a salmon: 

“Now, my dear,” he continued, as they went on, “do you tell me that it’s decent for men and women on the stage to writhe about like eels?  Is n’t life bad enough already?”

It suddenly struck Shelton that, for all his smile, his uncle’s face had a look of crucifixion.  It was, perhaps, only the stronger sunlight in the open spaces of Trafalgar Square.

“I don’t know,” he said; “I think I prefer the truth.”

“Bad endings and the rest,” said Mr. Paramor, pausing under one of Nelson’s lions and taking Shelton by a button.  “Truth ’s the very devil!”

He stood there, very straight, his eyes haunting his nephew’s face; there seemed to Shelton a touching muddle in his optimism—­a muddle of tenderness and of intolerance, of truth and second-handedness.  Like the lion above him, he seemed to be defying Life to make him look at her.

“No, my dear,” he said, handing sixpence to a sweeper; “feelings are snakes! only fit to be kept in bottles with tight corks.  You won’t come to my club?  Well, good-bye, old boy; my love to your mother when you see her”; and turning up the Square, he left Shelton to go on to his own club, feeling that he had parted, not from his uncle, but from the nation of which they were both members by birth and blood and education.