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.