"So here are eighteen-odd guineas," quoth uncle Jervas, "a paltry and most inadequate sum, perhaps, but these should last you a few days—with care, or at least until, wearying of hardship, you steal back into the silken lap of luxury."
"And look 'ee, Perry lad," added uncle George, clapping me on the shoulder and eyeing me a little anxiously, "come back soon, boy—soon, d'ye see—"
"He will, George, he will!" nodded uncle Jervas.
"He looks damnably solitary, somehow, Jervas."
"And small, George."
"Sirs," said I, "for my lack of size, blame nature. As to loneliness—'my mind to me my kingdom is,' and one peopled by a thousand loved friends, or of what avail the reading of books?"
"Books? M—yes, precisely!" quoth my uncle George, ruffling up his thick curls and eyeing me askance. "But what are we to tell your aunt Julia?"
"Nothing, sir. At the first inn I stop at I will write her fully regarding my departure and future plans—"
"But—oh, curse it. Perry," exclaimed uncle George, fumbling for his whisker, "she'll be sure to blame us, aye, she will so, b'gad d'ye see—"
"Not when she reads my letter, sir. Indeed I feel—nay, I know that my absence will but serve to draw you nearer together, all three, and I look forward with assured hope to seeing her happily wedded to—to one or other of you when—when I return—"