Here he discovered not only his parent, a valetudinarian of quite amazing stamina, but also his uncle, Horace Paulett.
Since Mr Paulett had taken up his residence at Sheringham Place some years previously, upon the death of the late Lord Sheringham, there was nothing in this circumstance to astonish the Viscount. He had, in fact, expected to find his uncle there, but this did not prevent his ejaculating in a goaded voice: “Good God, you here, uncle?”
Mr Paulett, who was a plump gentleman with an invincible smile and very soft white hands, never permitted himself to be annoyed by his nephew’s patent dislike and frequent incivility. He merely smiled more broadly than ever, and replied: “Yes, my boy, yes! As you see, I am here, at my post beside your dear mother.”
Lady Sheringham, having provided herself with a smelling-bottle to fortify her nerves during an interview with her only child, removed the stopper and inhaled feebly. “I am not sure I do not know what would become of me if I had not my good brother to support me in my lonely state,” she said, in the faint, complaining tone which so admirably concealed a constitution of iron and a strong determination to have her own way.
Her son, who was quite as obstinate as his parent, and a good deal more forthright, replied with paralysing candour: “From what I know of you, ma’am, you would have done excellent well. What’s more, I might have stayed at home every now and then. I don’t say I would have, because I don’t like the place, but I might have.”
So far from evincing any gratification at this handsome admission, Lady Sheringham sought in her reticule for a handkerchief, and applied this wisp of lace and muslin to the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Horace!” she said. “I knew how it would be! So like his father!”
The Viscount did not fall into the error of reading any complimentary meaning into this remark. He said: “Well, dash it, ma’am, there’s no harm in that! Come to think of it, who else should I be like?”
“Whom, my boy, whom!” corrected his uncle gently. “We must not forget our grammar!”
“Never knew any,” retorted the Viscount. “And don’t keep on calling me your boy! I may have a lot of faults, but at least that’s one thing no one can throw in my face!”
“Anthony, have you no consideration for my poor nerves?” quavered his mother, bringing the vinaigrette into play again.