It is not to be wondered at that poor Twemlow should decline to inflict a letter on his noble cousin (who has gout in the temper), inasmuch as his noble cousin, who allows him a small annuity on which he lives, takes it out of him, as the phrase goes, in extreme severity; putting him, when he visits at Snigsworthy Park, under a kind of martial law; ordaining that he shall hang his hat on a particular peg, sit on a particular chair, talk on particular subjects to particular people, and perform particular exercises: such as sounding the praises of the Family Varnish (not to say Pictures), and abstaining from the choicest of the Family Wines unless expressly invited to partake.

“One thing, however, I can do for you,” says Twemlow; “and that is, work for you.”

Veneering blesses him again.

“I’ll go,” says Twemlow, in a rising hurry of spirits, “to the club;⁠—let us see now; what o’clock is it?”

“Twenty minutes to eleven.”