“Ah, now, now, now! None of that—none of it. They wouldn’t gloat and I might have helped.”
Wynne seated himself thoughtfully.
“Yes, I think that’s true; but I wonder if you believe me when I say that never once has it crossed my mind as a way out of the difficulty. When I left home I left finally, not experimentally. If my father were to see me as I am now he would say I had slipped down hill, but I haven’t—I haven’t. Downhill I may have gone with a bit of rush, but I’m gathering impetus all the time, getting up weigh for the climb ahead. You see that, don’t you? This is all to the good, isn’t it?”
There was an honest, genuine sincerity in the way he spoke.
“Every time. All to the good. I should say it is. Hullo! who the devil is this?”
“This” was M. le Patron, highly incensed at the sight of one of his waiters sitting at a table.
“Ça fait rien,” began Uncle Clem. Then to Wynne, “Oh, you tell him it’s all right; tell him I’m your uncle—say you’re coming out for the afternoon. Here’s ten francs. Get your hat, and shove that damned dicky in your pocket. Tell the old fool he’s a good fellah and to go to the devil.”
A certain amount of foregoing advices were translated, and M. le Patron, placated by the ten-franc note, granted Wynne leave of absence and conversed affably with Uncle Clem while Wynne mounted the stairs and changed his coat.
“Come on,” said Uncle Clem. “Let’s get somewhere where we can talk.”
He hailed a fiacre and they drove to the Bois de Boulogne. Here they alighted, and sprawled upon the grass beneath a tree.