“I do not understand your metaphor, Sydney, my child,” said the lady, coldly.
“I mean, suppose Watcombe romps in at the race.”
“Race! Oh, my dear boy, pray do not use that word. If you mean suppose his adversary should be at the head, pray dismiss the thought. Your dear uncle must win and take his seat in the House. Some day I shall see his nephew, my dear child, following his example—the second baronet of our family. Think of this, Sydney, and learn to feel proud of descending from one of the manufacturing commercial princes of the Midlands, whose clever ingenuity resulted in the invention of a complicated instrument—”
“Improved devil,” said the “dear boy” to himself.
“For tearing up old and waste woollen fragments into fibre and dust.”
“Devils dust,” said Sydney, silently.
“The former being worked up again into cloth—”
“Shoddy,” muttered Sydney.
“And the latter utilised for fertilising the earth and making it return a hundredfold.”
“Gammon,” said Syd.