The last time Bobby had met Uncle Simon was in the office in Old Serjeants' Inn. Uncle Simon, seated at his desk-table with his back to the big John Tann safe, had been in bitter mood; not angry, but stern. Bobby seated before him, hat in hand, had offered no apologies or exculpations for his conduct with girls, for his stupid engagement, for his idleness. He had many bad faults, but he never denied them, nor did he seek to minimise them by explanations and lies.
"I tried to float you," had said Uncle Simon, as though Bobby were a company. "I have failed. Well, I have done my duty, and I clearly see that I will not be doing my duty by continuing as I have done; the allowance I have made you is ended. You will now have to swim for yourself. I should never have put money in your hands; I quite see that."
"I can make my own living," said Bobby. "I am not without gratitude for what you have done——"
"And a nice way you have shown your gratitude," said the other, "tangling yourself like that—gaming, frequenting bars."
So the interview had ended. Frequenting bars!
"Uncle Simon!" said Bobby half-nervously, touching the other on the arm.
Uncle Simon swung slowly round. Bobby might have been King Canute for all Uncle Simon knew. He had got beyond the stage where the word "uncle" from a stranger would have aroused ire or surprise.
"H'are you?" said Simon. "Have a drink?"
Yes, it was Uncle Simon right enough, and Bobby, in all his life, had never received such a shock as that which came to him now with the full recognition of the fact. St. Paul's Cathedral turned into a gambling-shop, the Bishop of London dressed as a clown, would have been nothing to this. He was horrified. He came to the swift conclusion that Uncle Simon had come to smash somehow, and gone mad. A vague idea flew through his mind that his respected relative was dressed like this as a disguise to avoid creditors, but he had sense enough not to ask questions.
"I don't mind," said he; "I'll have a small soda."