“You see, I can understand Uncle Dick’s attitude; he is pretty sick of me, and I don’t blame him; after all, when you come to think of it, why should he support a healthy, able-bodied duffer simply because he is his nephew?”
“Worse than that,” amended his sister, “his heir! I can understand his attitude even better than you, Owen. As a young man he never had any real fling, and could scarcely afford cabs and clothes or anything he wanted. He was hampered by a hopelessly extravagant father.”
“And now in his old age he is tormented by a spendthrift nephew.”
“Yes, and I can’t exactly explain; but I grasp the situation. You have had, what as a young man he never enjoyed—that is to say, a splendid time—and chiefly at his expense. He must feel just a little bit sore.”
“No; old Dick is a rattling good sort, and I don’t agree with you, Leila. It’s not so much the money he grudges, but that he thinks I’ll never do any good. I’ve no ballast. I’ve got to sally out into the world, like the hero in a fairy tale, and prove myself!”
“Yes, my dear brother; you practically start to-day, March the 31st, and do you know that I’ve got an idea,—and from Purdon, of all people. He is rather smart looking, and might pass for a gentleman, till he opens his mouth; besides, I happen to know that his mother lives in Fulham, and keeps a small greengrocer’s shop.”
“Yes, but your idea? You don’t want me to start in that line, do you?”
“No,” with an irrepressible smile; “I want you to become a chauffeur!”
“A chauffeur!” he repeated, subsiding into an adjacent arm-chair; “but why?”
“But why not?”