It is not to be wondered at that poor Twemlow should decline to inflict a letter on his noble cousin (who has gout in the temper), inasmuch as his noble cousin, who allows him a small annuity on which he lives, takes it out of him, as the phrase goes, in extreme severity; putting him, when he visits at Snigsworthy Park, under a kind of martial law; ordaining that he shall hang his hat on a particular peg, sit on a particular chair, talk on particular subjects to particular people, and perform particular exercises: such as sounding the praises of the Family Varnish (not to say Pictures), and abstaining from the choicest of the Family Wines unless expressly invited to partake.
‘One thing, however, I can do for you,’ says Twemlow; ‘and that is, work for you.’
Veneering blesses him again.
‘I’ll go,’ says Twemlow, in a rising hurry of spirits, ‘to the club;—let us see now; what o’clock is it?’
‘Twenty minutes to eleven.’
‘I’ll be,’ says Twemlow, ‘at the club by ten minutes to twelve, and I’ll never leave it all day.’
Veneering feels that his friends are rallying round him, and says, ‘Thank you, thank you. I knew I could rely upon you. I said to Anastatia before leaving home just now to come to you—of course the first friend I have seen on a subject so momentous to me, my dear Twemlow—I said to Anastatia, “We must work.”’
‘You were right, you were right,’ replies Twemlow. ‘Tell me. Is she working?’
‘She is,’ says Veneering.
‘Good!’ cries Twemlow, polite little gentleman that he is. ‘A woman’s tact is invaluable. To have the dear sex with us, is to have everything with us.’