separated me from my club--intent on dining. In my averseness to
solitude I sat down at a table where sat already a little, bald-headed,
false-toothed Anglo-Indian, a man who bored me into fits of nervous
excitement. He was by way of being an incredibly distant uncle of my
own. As a rule I avoided him, to-night I dined with him. He was a person
of interminable and incredibly inaccurate reminiscences. His long
residence in an indigo-producing swamp had affected his memory, which
was supported by only very occasional visits to England.

He told me tales of my poor father and of my poor, dear mother, and of
Mr. Bromptons and Mrs. Kenwards who had figured on their visiting lists
away back in the musty sixties.

"Your poor, dear father was precious badly off then," he said; "he had a
hard struggle for it. I had a bad time of it too; worm had got at all my
plantations, so I couldn't help him, poor chap. I think, mind you, Kenny
Granger treated him very badly. He might have done something for him--he
had influence, Kenny had."

Kenny was my uncle, the head of the family, the husband of my aunt.

"They weren't on terms," I said.

"Oh, I know, I know," the old man mumbled, "but still, for one's only
brother ... However, you contrive to do yourselves pretty well. You're
making your pile, aren't you? Someone said to me the other day--can't
remember who it was--that you were quite one of the rising men--quite
one of _the_ men."

"Very kind of someone," I said.