proportions as the two colossal, pale-blue-and-red liveried porters of Schäfers' held open the inner doors for us with a respectful salutation that in some manner they seemed to confine wholly to my uncle. Instead of being about four inches taller, I felt at least the same size as he, and very much slenderer. Still more respectful waiters relieved him of the new hat and the dignified umbrella, and took his orders for our lunch. He gave them with a fine assurance.
He nodded to several of the waiters.
"They know me, George, already," he said. "Point me out. Live place! Eye for coming men!"
The detailed business of the lunch engaged our attention for a while, and then I leant across my plate. "And now?" said I.
"It's the secret of vigour. Didn't you read that label?"
"Yes, but"
"It's selling like hot cakes."
"And what is it?" I pressed.
"Well," said my uncle, and then leant forward and spoke softly under cover of his hand, "It's nothing more or less than . . ."
(But here an unfortunate scruple intervenes. After all, Tono-Bungay is still a marketable commodity and in the hands of purchasers, who bought it from—among other vendors—me. No! I am afraid I cannot give it away.)
"You see," said my uncle in a slow confidential whisper, with eyes very wide and a creased forehead, "it's nice because of the" (here he mentioned a flavouring matter and an aromatic spirit), "it's stimulating because of" (here he mentioned two very vivid tonics, one with a marked action on the kidney).
