"Bob Maurice, Uncle Archie."
And Uncle Archie shook hands with me most cordially.
"And how's the north pole this morning?"
"Nicely, thanks, Uncle Archie."
Lord Archibald was a very tall and handsome man, about fifty—very droll and full of anecdote; he had stories to tell about everything in the room.
For instance, how Major Welsh of the 10th Hussars had given him that pair of Wellingtons, which fitted him better than any boots Hoby ever made him to measure; they were too tight for poor Welsh, who was a head shorter than himself.
How Kerlewis made him that frock‑coat fifteen years ago, and it wasn't threadbare yet, and fitted him as well as ever—for he hadn't changed his weight for thirty years, etc.
How that pair of braces had been made by "my lady" out of a pair of garters she wore on the day they were married.
And then he told us how to keep trousers from bagging at the knees, and how cloth coats should be ironed, and how often—and how to fold an umbrella.
It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps these little anecdotes may not be so amusing to the general reader as they were to me when he told them, so I won't tell any more. Indeed, I have often noticed that things look sometimes rather dull in print that were so surprisingly witty when said in spontaneous talk a great many years ago!