"My nephew, Robin."
I glanced obliquely at the card which marked his place at table, and
read--
_Sir James Fordyce._
Then I began to grasp the situation, and I realised that this great man,
whose name was honourably known wherever the ills of childhood are
combated, was Robin's uncle, the "doctor" to whom my secretary had
casually referred, and whom he occasionally went to visit on Sunday
afternoons. I had pictured an overdriven G.P., living in Bloomsbury or
Balham, with a black bag, and a bulge in his hat where he kept his
stethoscope. A man sufficiently distinguished to represent his
profession at a public banquet was more than I had bargained for.
We became friends at once, and supported each other, so to speak, amid
the multitude of dinners and dishes, our respective neighbours proving
but broken reeds so far as social intercourse was concerned. On Sir
James's left, I remember, sat a plethoric gentleman whose burnished
countenance gave him the appearance of a sort of incarnate Glazed Tile;
while my right-hand neighbour, from the manner in which he manipulated
the food upon his plate, I put down without hesitation as a Mortar Mixer
of high standing.
The old gentleman gave me a good deal of information about Robin.
"He had a hard fight his first year or two in London," he said. "I could
see by the way he fell upon his dinner when he came to my house that his
meat and drink were not easily come by. Still, now that he has won
through, he will not regret the experience. I had it myself. It is the
finest training that a young man can receive. Hard, terribly hard, but
invaluable! You will not have seen his father yet--my brother John?"