“Yes.”
“Have you considered,” said Uncle Donald, portentously, “that you owe a duty to the Family.”
Bruce Carmyle's patience snapped and he sank like a stone to absolutely Gingerian depths of plain-spokenness.
“Oh, damn the Family!” he cried.
There was a painful silence, broken only by the relieved sigh of the armchair as Uncle Donald heaved himself out of it.
“After that,” said Uncle Donald, “I have nothing more to say.”
“Good!” said Mr. Carmyle rudely, lost to all shame.
“'Cept this. If you come back married to that girl, I'll cut you in Piccadilly. By George, I will!”
He moved to the door. Bruce Carmyle looked down his nose without speaking. A tense moment.
“What,” asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, “did you say it was called?”