They made a very excellent déjeuner at the pleasant little restaurant under the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, and when it was over, and Uncle Clem had produced two delicate Havana cheroots, the conversation turned to Wynne’s future.
“You’ve done enough of this waiting business,” he said. “Better come back with me at the end of the week.”
“Sorry,” said Wynne, “but it won’t run to it yet.”
“Well, I’m your uncle—so that’s that, ain’t it?”
“It’s that as far as the relationship goes, but no farther.”
“D’you mean you won’t be helped?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”
“But look here—”
“Don’t make me,” pleaded Wynne. “It would be so easy that way.”
“But it’s all nonsense. You’ve proved your mettle—no harm relaxing a trifle.”