) I got down there, I
suppose, about eleven. I found the two of them sitting in the study, my
aunt on a chair-arm with a whimsical pensiveness on her face, regarding
my uncle, and he, much extended and very rotund, in the low arm-chair
drawn up to the fender.
"Look here, George," said my uncle, after my first greetings. "I just
been saying: We aren't Oh Fay!"
"Eh?"
"Not Oh Fay! Socially!"
"Old FLY, he means, George--French!"
"Oh! Didn't think of French. One never knows where to have him. What's
gone wrong to-night?"
"I been thinking. It isn't any particular thing. I ate too much of that
fishy stuff at first, like salt frog spawn, and was a bit confused by
olives; and--well, I didn't know which wine was which. Had to say THAT
each time. It puts your talk all wrong. And she wasn't in evening dress,
not like the others. We can't go on in that style, George--not a proper
ad."
"I'm not sure you were right," I said, "in having a fly."
"We got to do it all better," said my uncle, "we got to do it in Style.
Smart business, smart men.
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