Grimshaw laughed. His uncle amused him. Sir Dion continued:
“We only wake up at the club elections in the drawing-room. A lot of pilling goes on. I asked one old boy to pill a particularly aggressive candidate, and he said curtly: ‘Why?’ I replied, ‘Because he’s a cantankerous, unclubbable ass.’ The old boy scowled at me and said savagely: ‘I’m a cantankerous, unclubbable ass, and I shall vote for him.’ And he did!”
A carefully chosen dinner was provided, admirably cooked. Sir Dion, after the ice, took a Corona de Corona cigar from his ample case, and sent it to the chef with his compliments and thanks. And he exchanged a joke with the steward when he settled his bill before leaving the dining-room.
Not till he had finished his coffee did Sir Dion speak seriously.
“So it’s the parish pump for you, eh?”
“With the pump out of order.”
Sir Dion nodded. Then he said, portentously for him:
“You are your father’s son. He tilted against windmills all his life, poor dear fellow! As a schoolmaster he would have climbed high and ended as a bishop. I used to offer him sound advice, although, to do him justice, he never asked for it or took it. Now I am tempted to say a word or two to you.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“From what you tell me you seem to like trouble. I don’t. That, of course, is the essential difference between us. However, your partner, Pawley, seems to have a good practice amongst country people. And, when he retires, you ought to earn a decent income.”