Sir John Meredith was sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair by his library fire. In his young days men did not loll in deep chairs, with their knees higher than their heads. There were no such chairs in this library, just as there was no afternoon tea except for ladies. Sir John Meredith was distressed to observe a great many signs of the degeneration of manhood, which he attributed to the indulgence in afternoon tea. Sir John had lately noticed another degeneration, namely, in the quality of the London gas. So serious was this falling off that he had taken to a lamp in the evening, which lamp stood on the table at his elbow.
Some months earlier—that is to say, about six months after Jack's departure—Sir John had called casually upon an optician. He stood upright by the counter, and frowned down on a mild-looking man who wore the strongest spectacles made, as if in advertisement of his own wares.
“They tell me,” he said, “that you opticians make glasses now which are calculated to save the sight in old age.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the optician, with wriggling white fingers. “We make a special study of that. We endeavour to save the sight—to store it up, as it were, in—a middle life, for use in old age. You see, sir, the pupil of the eye—”
Sir John held up a warning hand.
“The pupil of the eye is your business, as I understand from the sign above your shop—at all events, it is not mine,” he said. “Just give me some glasses to suit my sight, and don't worry me with the pupil of the eye.”
He turned towards the door, threw back his shoulders, and waited.
“Spectacles, sir?” inquired the man meekly.
“Spectacles, sir!” cried Sir John. “No, sir. Spectacles be damned! I want a pair of eyeglasses.”
And these eyeglasses were affixed to the bridge of Sir John Meredith's nose, as he sat stiffly in the straight-backed chair.