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Napoleonic legend to misguide him. He was in many ways better and infinitely kinder than his career. But when in doubt between decent conduct and a base advantage, that cult came in more and more influentially: ā€œthink of Napoleon; think what the inflexibly-wilful Napoleon would have done with such scruples as yours;ā€ that was the rule, and the end was invariably a new step in dishonour.

My uncle was in an unsystematic way a collector of Napoleonic relics; the bigger the book about his hero the more readily he bought it; he purchased letters and tinsel and weapons that bore however remotely upon the Man of Destiny, and he even secured in Geneva, though he never brought home, an old coach in which Bonaparte might have ridden; he crowded the quiet walls of Lady Grove with engravings and figures of him, preferring, my aunt remarked, the more convex portraits with the white vest and those statuettes with the hands behind the back which threw forward the figure. The Durgans watched him through it all, sardonically.

And he would stand after breakfast at times in the light of the window at Lady Grove, a little apart, with two fingers of one hand stuck between his waistcoat-buttons and his chin sunken, thinkingā ā€”the most preposterous little fat man in the world. It made my aunt feel, she said, ā€œlike an old Field Marshalā ā€”knocks me into a cocked hat, George!ā€

Perhaps this Napoleonic bias made him a little less frequent with his cigars than he would otherwise have been, but of that I cannot be sure, and it certainly caused my aunt a considerable amount of vexation after he had read Napoleon and the Fair Sex, because for a time that roused him to a sense of a side of life he had in his commercial preoccupations very largely forgotten. Suggestion plays so great a part in this field. My uncle took the next opportunity and had an ā€œaffairā€!

It was not a very impassioned affair, and the exact particulars never of course reached me. It is quite by chance I know anything of it at all. One evening I was surprised to come upon my uncle in a mixture of Bohemia and smart people at an At Home in the flat of Robbert, the R.A. who painted my aunt, and he was standing a little apart in a recess, talking or rather being talked to in undertones by a plump, blond little woman in pale blue, a Helen Scrymgeour who wrote novels and was organising a weekly magazine. I elbowed a large lady who was saying something about them, but I didnā€™t need to hear the thing she said to perceive the relationship of the two. It hit me like a placard on a hoarding. I was amazed the whole gathering did not see it. Perhaps they did. She was wearing a remarkably fine diamond necklace, much too fine for journalism, and regarding him with that quality of questionable proprietorship, of leashed but straining intimacy, that seems inseparable from this sort of affair. It is so much more palpable than matrimony. If anything was wanted to complete my conviction it was my unclesā€™s eyes when presently he became aware of mine, a certain embarrassment and a certain pride and defiance. And the next day he made an opportunity to praise the ladyā€™s intelligence to me concisely, lest I should miss the point of it all.

After that I heard some gossipā ā€”from a friend of the ladyā€™s. I was much too curious to do anything but listen. I had never in all my life imagined my uncle in an amorous attitude. It would appear that she called him her ā€œGod in the Carā€ā ā€”after the hero in a novel of Anthony Hopeā€™s. It was essential to the convention of their relations that he should go relentlessly whenever business called, and it was generally arranged that it did call. To him women were an incident, it was understood between them; Ambition was the master-passion. A great world called him and the noble hunger for Power. I have never been able to discover just how honest Mrs. Scrymgeour was in all this, but it is quite possible the immense glamour of his financial largeness prevailed with her and that she did bring a really romantic feeling to their encounters. There must have been some extraordinary moments.ā ā€Šā ā€¦

I was a good deal exercised and distressed about my aunt when I realised what was afoot. I thought it would prove a terrible humiliation to her. I suspected her of keeping up a brave front with the loss of my uncleā€™s affections fretting at her heart, but there I simply underestimated her. She didnā€™t hear for some time and when she did hear she was extremely angry and energetic. The sentimental situation didnā€™t trouble her for a moment. She decided that my uncle ā€œwanted smacking.ā€ She accentuated herself with an unexpected new hat, went and gave him an inconceivable talking-to at the Hardingham, and then came round to ā€œblowupā€ me for not telling her what was going on before.ā ā€Šā ā€¦

I tried to bring her to a proper sense of the accepted values in this affair, but my auntā€™s originality of outlook was never so invincible. ā€œMen donā€™t tell on one another in affairs of passion,ā€ I protested, and suchlike worldly excuses.

ā€œWomen!ā€ she said in high indignation, ā€œand men! It isnā€™t women and menā ā€”itā€™s him and me, George! Why donā€™t you talk sense?

ā€œOld passionā€™s all very well, George, in its way, and Iā€™m the last person to be jealous. But this is old nonsense.ā ā€Šā ā€¦ Iā€™m not going to let him show off what a silly old lobster he is to other women.ā ā€Šā ā€¦ Iā€™ll mark every scrap of his underclothes with red letters, ā€˜Ponderevo-Privateā€™ā ā€”every scrap.

ā€œGoing about making love indeedā ā€”in abdominal belts!ā ā€”at his time of life!ā€

I cannot imagine what passed between her and my uncle. But I have no doubt that for once her customary badinage was laid aside. How they talked then I do not know, for I

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