His uncle was as well dressed as usual, looking as neat and as
smart in his dark cut-away coat with the invariable red carnation
in his buttonhole, but the boy's quick eye caught the marks of a
certain wear and tear in the face which neither his bath nor his
valet had been able to obliterate. The thin lips--thin for a man
so fat, and which showed, more than any other feature, something
of the desultory firmness of his character--drooped at the
corners. The eyes were half their size, the snap all out of them,
the whites lost under the swollen lids. His greeting, moreover,
had lost its customary heartiness.

"You were out late, I hear," he grumbled, dropping into his chair.
"I didn't get in myself until two o'clock and feel like a boiled
owl. May have caught a little cold, but I think it was that
champagne of Duckworth's; always gives me a headache. Don't put
any sugar and cream in that coffee, Parkins--want it straight."

"Yes, sir," replied the flunky, moving toward the sideboard.

"And now, Jack, what did you do?" he continued, picking up his
napkin. "You and Garry made a night of it, didn't you? Some kind
of an artist's bat, wasn't it?"

"No, sir; Mr. Morris gave a dinner to his clerks, and--"

"Who's Morris?"

"Why, the great architect."

"Oh, that fellow! Yes, I know him, that is, I know who he is. Say