Philip had artistic tastes, and he would have liked to make the bungalow something unique. He liked to write amid perfect surroundings, for his work was beautiful work—too beautiful to pay well—and he had an idea that surroundings influenced him a great deal when he wrote.
The windows of the room in which he sat were open, and sweet scents from the garden filled the air.
All at once he caught sight of Uncle Robert coming from the gate, hatless, and with a big towel round his neck.
He was returning from his customary swim.
He hailed his nephew joyously:
“The water is fine this morning, Phil! Why don’t you go for a swim like me?”
“Not fond of it, uncle,” replied Philip a little curtly.
Uncle Robert came in at the window and poured himself out a cup of coffee, upsetting it on the white cloth, to his nephew’s annoyance, and adding to his iniquities by dabbing it up with the table-napkin Philip had just laid down.
Really, Uncle Robert’s ways were a constant irritation to Philip.
“Why not ring for one of the servants to put that right?” Philip remarked.