“I think you flurry him, sir,” said David, “and-”

“I know I do,” grinned Mr. Mottisfont.

Young Edward Mottisfont came into the room and shut the door.

Old Mr. Mottisfont watched him with black, malicious eyes.

For as many years as Edward could remember anything, he could remember just that look upon his uncle's face. It made him uneasy now, as it had made him uneasy when he was only five years old.

Once when he was fifteen he said to David Blake: “You cheek him, David, and he likes you for it. How on earth do you manage it? Does n't he make you feel beastly?”

And David stared and said: “Beastly? Rats! Why should I feel beastly? He 's jolly amusing. He makes me laugh.”

At thirty, Edward no longer employed quite the same ingenuous slang, but there was no doubt that he still experienced the same sensations, which fifteen years earlier he had characterized as beastly.

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont lay in bed with his hands folded on his chest. He watched his nephew with considerable amusement, and waited for him to speak.

Edward took a chair beside the bed. Then he said that it was a fine day, and old Mr. Mottisfont nodded twice with much solemnity.

“Yes, Edward,” he said.

There was a pause.

“I hope you are feeling pretty well,” was the unfortunate Edward's next attempt at conversation.

Old Mr. Edward Mottisfont looked across at David Blake. “Am I feeling pretty well-eh, David?”

David laughed. He had moved when Edward came into the room, and was standing by the window looking out. A little square pane was open. Through it came the drowsy murmur of a drowsy, old-fashioned town. Mr. Mottisfont's house stood a few yards back from the road, just at the head of the High Street.