During the next year my household was furnished with three surprises,
Dilly contributing one and Robin two.
Robin's came first. One was his uncle, the other his book.
One night it fell to my lot to dine in the City, as the guest of the
Honourable Company of Tile-Glazers and Mortar-Mixers. As I swam
forlornly through a turgid ocean of turtle-soup and clarified punch
towards an unyielding continent of fish, irrigated by brown sherry,
mechanically rehearsing to myself the series of sparkling yet
statesmanlike epigrams with which I proposed to reply to the toast of
his Majesty's Ministers I became aware that the gentleman on my left was
addressing me in a voice that seemed vaguely familiar.
"And how is my brother's second boy doing with you, Mr Inglethwaite?"