and calls up all my impression, all my illusions, all my willful and
passionate proceedings. We came downstairs again into that inner room
which pretended to be a scientific laboratory through its high glass
lights, and indeed was a lurking place. My uncle pressed a cigarette on
me, and I took it and stood before the empty fireplace while he propped
his umbrella in the corner, deposited the new silk hat that was a little
too big for him on the table, blew copiously and produced a second
cigar.

It came into my head that he had shrunken very much in size since the
Wimblehurst days, that the cannon ball he had swallowed was rather more
evident and shameless than it had been, his skin less fresh and the nose
between his glasses, which still didn't quite fit, much redder. And just
then he seemed much laxer in his muscles and not quite as alertly quick
in his movements. But he evidently wasn't aware of the degenerative
nature of his changes as he sat there, looking suddenly quite little
under my eyes.

"Well, George!" he said, quite happily unconscious of my silent
criticism, "what do you think of it all?"

"Well," I said, "in the first place--it's a damned swindle!"

"Tut! tut!" said my uncle. "It's as straight as--It's fair trading!"

"So much the worse for trading," I said.

"It's the sort of thing everybody does. After all, there's no harm in
the stuff--and it may do good. It might do a lot of good--giving people
confidence, f'rinstance, against an epidemic. See? Why not? don't see