with the remnant to indicate that she had more to say.
"How are you going to make your fortune?" she said so soon as she could speak again. "You haven't told us that."
"'Lectricity," said my uncle, taking breath after a deep draught of tea.
"If I make it at all," I said. "For my part I think I shall be satisfied with something less than a fortune."
"We're going to make ours—suddenly," she said. "So he old says." She jerked her head at my uncle. "He won't tell me when—so I can't get anything ready. But it's coming. Going to ride in our carriage and have a garden. Garden—like a bishop's."
She finished her bun and twiddled crumbs from her fingers. "I shall be glad of the garden," she said. "It's going to be a real big one with rosaries and things. Fountains in it. Pampas grass. Hothouses."
"You'll get it all right," said my uncle, who had reddened a little.
"Grey horses in the carriage, George," she said. "It's nice to think about when one's dull. And dinners in restaurants often and often. And theatres—in the stalls. And money and money and money."
"You may joke," said my uncle, and hummed for a moment.
"Just as though an old Porpoise like him would ever make money," she said, turning her eyes upon his profile with a sudden lapse to affection. "He'll just porpoise about."
"I'll do something," said my uncle, "you bet! Zzzz!" and rapped with a shilling on the marble table.
"When you do you'll have to buy me a new pair