"And a very creditable pair o' black eyes, Jervas."
"True, George! Our youth has been observing life at close quarters, it seems."
"B'gad—he has so, brother!" chuckled uncle George.
"Tells me he's spent all his money on women!"
My uncle Jervas very nearly dropped his eyeglass.
"Now—'pon my everlasting—" his voice failed and he gazed at me quite dumbfounded for once.
"Think o' Julia!" said uncle George, with a kind of groan. "Think of—'Ode to a Throstle'—poor Julia—sweet soul!" My two uncles turned from my indignant form to regard each other; then, all at once, the grim lips of my uncle Jervas twitched, quivered to a flash of white teeth, but his laughter was drowned by uncle George's cachinnations where he stood on one leg, slapping at the other brawny thigh until the dust flew.
"Sirs," said I, folding my arms and glancing from one to other disdainfully, "your mirth is as unwarranted as unseemly! The money in question was expended in the service of—of one who—whose need was instant and great. I have the honour to bid you good-bye!"
But, as I turned, my uncle Jervas laid his hand on my arm, a white, elegant hand strangely out of place on my rough and weather-beaten coat-sleeve.
"Pray accept our sincerest apologies, Peregrine," said he. Now at this I glanced up in wondering surprise, for in the touch of this slim hand, in voice and look, I had an indefinable sense of comradeship that thrilled me with sudden pride.