“After all,” thought he, “perhaps it is hard to be claimed for uncle by a rag-picker. I will resume my decorative self, find out where my lord lodges, and wait upon him in form and civility.”
He had his insignificant baggage removed to temporary quarters, ransacked the mean little town for what moderately becoming outfit it could yield, shaved, rested, and refreshed himself, and issued forth once more on duty’s quest.
“And what is the old man doing here?” he thought; “and who is the enigmatical Cyprian?”—whereby, it will be observed, he jumped to baseless conclusions. But he gave himself no great concern about the matter, admitting that the probable explanation of his uncle’s presence in the sea-port town lay in that flotsam and jetsam of the Palais Royal bagnios that many tides washed up on the coast.
“He may be acting the part of a noble and unvenerable wrecker,” thought he—it must be confessed, consistently with the common estimate of his kinsman.
My lord had rooms in one of the fine mansions then first beginning to sprout over against the harbour for the accommodation of wealthy sea-bathers. He was dressed—with all the force of the expression as applied to him—for dinner, and received his nephew in a fine withdrawing-room overlooking the bay. He snarled out an ungracious welcome. He was, as ever, wrapped and embalmed in costly linen smelling of amber-seed, and was with all—so it seemed to the nephew—a touch nearer actual comminution than when he had last seen him. To strip him of cartonage and bandages would be, it appeared, to commit him to dust. But the maggot of vanity still found sustenance in the old wood of his brain.
“I am honoured,” he said, “that you give my table the preference over a tavern ordinary. Have you learned to equip yourself with a palate in these months?”
“At least I’ll promise to do justice to your fare, sir.”
“Will you? You shall be made Lord Chancellor if you do. No, no, Ned! To know beef from matton is the measure of your gastranamy. Ain’t you hungry, now?”
“Ravenous, sir.”
“Il n’y en a pas de doute. You dress like a chairman (I’m your humble debtor, egad! that you’ve recommitted the rags you landed in to the dunghill), and you’ll eat like one. A gentleman’s never hungry. He appraises his viands, sir. ’Tis for flunkeys to devour. One must not yield oneself to a condition of emptiness. That implies a dozen of little disadvantages that are inimical to bon-ton. But you know me hopeless of ever convincing you in these matters.”