In the art of “nagging” our uncle was supreme, bearing out Sarah Grand’s theory that women are nowhere in this province, which has been reckoned peculiarly their own. Curling himself up gracefully in his favourite armchair, and lighting a cigar, he would prepare himself to enjoy it. Sometimes the attack would be sudden and wanting in delicacy.
“Ronald, I wish you could manage to be down in time for dinner.” Ronald, be it observed, had been five minutes late, but yet five minutes prior to its announcement by the butler.
“My tie was so infern—intolerably hard to fasten, sir. I must get a Jemima.”
“A Jemima!” shouted the uncle—scandalised at the idea of Ronald contemplating the introduction of some rustic handmaid—“What on earth do you mean?”
“A hand-made tie, sir.” (The pun is yours, old man, not mine. Besides, the uncle wouldn’t have seen it, even if he’d given me the chance.—R.)
A mollified pause of ten minutes. The next time he would preface his thrust with a feint, to throw Ronald off his guard.
“What a wonderfully nice young fellow Carter is. Gets himself up as if he were living in town. I do like to see a fellow wear a tall hat on Sunday; it’s far and away more respectable than a round one.”
Ronald was incorrigible in this respect, and became as the deaf adder.
Five minutes’ grace.
“How that fellow Stanton did talk at dinner; one couldn’t get a word in edgeways. By-the-by, I think you talk a little too freely, Ronald, to men older and wiser than yourself.”