THE GOLDEN AGE
had speedily informed us that Uncle Thomas was intrusted with a mission—a mission, too, affecting ourselves. Uncle Thomas's missions were many and various. A self-important man, one liking the business while protesting that he sank under the burden, he was the missionary, so to speak, of our remote habitation. The matching a ribbon, the running down to the stores, the interviewing a cook—these and similar duties lent constant colour and variety to his vacant life in London, and helped to keep down his figure. When the matter, however, had in our presence to be referred to with nods and pronouns, with significant hiatuses and interpolations in the French tongue, then the red flag was flown, the storm-cone hoisted, and by a studious pretence of inattention we were not long in plucking out the heart of the mystery.
To clinch our conclusion, we descended suddenly and together on Martha; proceeding, however, not by simple inquiry as to facts—that would never have done; but by informing her that the air was full of school and that we
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