speech, while uncle Jervas smiled and dangled his eyeglass.

MY UNCLE GEORGE (breathing heavily). That's done it, Jervas, that's
one in the wind. A poet! Poor, poor lad.

MY AUNT (triumphantly). He has written some charming sonnets, and an
ode to a throstle that has been much admired.

UNCLE GEORGE (faintly). Ode! B'gad! Throstle!

MY UNCLE JERVAS. He trifles with paints and brushes, too, I believe?

MY AUNT. Charmingly! He may dazzle the world with a noble picture yet;
who knows?

MY UNCLE JERVAS. Oh, my dear Julia, who indeed! He has a pronounced
aversion for most manly sports, I believe: horses, for instance--

MY AUNT. He rides with me occasionally, but as for your inhuman
hunting and racing--certainly not!

UNCLE GEORGE. And before we were his age, I had broken my collarbone
and you had won the county steeplechase from me by a head, Jervas. Ha,
that was a race, lad, never enjoyed anything more unless it was when
the "Camberwell Chicken" went down and couldn't come up to time and
the crowd--

AUNT JULIA. You were both so terribly wild and reckless!

UNCLE JERVAS. No, my sweet woman, just ordinary healthy young animals.