OfaneveningtheWimblehurstblade，shiny-facedfromawashandwithsomeloudfinery，acolouredwaistcoatoravividtie，wouldbetakehimselftotheEastryArmsbilliard-room，ortothebarparlourofsomeminorpubwherenapcouldbeplayed。Onesoonsickenedofhisslowknowingness，thecunningobservationofhisdeadenedeyes，hisideaofa“goodstory。”always，alwaystoldinundertones，poordirtyworm！hisshrewd，elaboratemaneuversforsomepettyadvantage，adrinktothegoodorsuch-likedeal。
ThererisesbeforemyeyesasIwrite，youngHopleyDodd，thesonoftheWimblehurstauctioneer，theprideofWimblehurst，itsfinestflower，withhisfurwaistcoatandhisbulldogpipe，hisridingbreeches——hehadnohorse——andhisgaiters，asheusedtosit，leaningforwardandwatchingthebilliard-tablefromunderthebrimofhisartfullytiltedhat。Ahalf-dozenphrasesconstitutedhisconversation：“hardlines！”heusedtosay，and“Goodbaazness。”inabassbleat。Moreover，hehadalongslowwhistlethatwasesteemedtheverycreamofhumorouscomment。
Nightafternighthewasthere。
Alsoyouknewhewouldnotunderstandthat_I_couldplaybilliards，andregardedeverystrokeImadeasafluke。ForabeginnerIdidn’tplaysobadly，Ithought。I’mnotsosurenow；
thatwasmyopinionatthetime。ButyoungDodd’sscepticismandthe“goodbaazness“finallycuredmeofmydispositiontofrequenttheEastryArms，andsothesenoiseshadtheirvalueinmyworld。
Imadenofriendsamongtheyoungmenoftheplaceatall，andthoughIwasenteringuponadolescenceIhavenolove-affairtotellofhere。NotthatIwasnotwakinguptothataspectoflifeinmymiddleteensIdid，indeed，invariousslightlyinformalwaysscrapeacquaintancewithcasualWimblehurstgirls；
withalittledressmaker’sapprenticeIgotuponshylyspeakingterms，andapupilteacherintheNationalSchoolwentfurtherandwas“talkedabout“inconnectionwithmebutIwasnotbyanymeanstouchedbyanyrealityofpassionforeitheroftheseyoungpeople；love——loveasyetcametomeonlyinmydreams。Ionlykissedthesegirlsonceortwice。Theyratherdisconcertedthandevelopedthosedreams。Theyweresoclearlynot“it。”Ishallhavemuchtosayofloveinthisstory，butImaybreakittothereadernowthatitismyroletobearatherineffectuallover。
DesireIknewwellenough——indeed，toowell；butloveIhavebeenshyof。Inallmyearlyenterprisesinthewarofthesexes，I
wastornbetweentheurgencyofthebodyandahabitofromanticfantasythatwantedeveryphaseoftheadventuretobegenerousandbeautiful。AndIhadacuriouslyhauntingmemoryofBeatrice，ofherkissesinthebrackenandherkissuponthewall，thatsomehowpitchedthestandardtoohighforWimblehurst’sopportunities。IwillnotdenyIdidinaboyishwayattemptashy，rudeadventureorsoinlove-makingatWimblehurst；butthroughthesevariousinfluences，Ididn’tbringthingsofftoanyextentatall。Ileftbehindmenodevastatingmemories，nosplendidreputation。Icameawayatlast，stillinexperiencedandalittlethwarted，withonlyanaturalgrowthofinterestanddesireinsexualthings。
IfIfellinlovewithanyoneinWimblehurstitwaswithmyaunt。Shetreatedmewithakindlinessthatwasonlyhalfmaternal——shepettedmybooks，sheknewaboutmycertificates，shemadefunofmeinawaythatstirredmyhearttoher。QuiteunconsciouslyIgrewfondofher。
MyadolescentyearsatWimblehurstwereonthewholelaborious，uneventfulyearsthatbeganinshortjacketsandleftmeinmanywaysnearlyaman，yearssouneventfulthattheCalculusofVariationsisassociatedwithonewinter，andanexaminationinPhysicsforScienceandArtdepartmentHonoursmarksanepoch。
Manydivergentimpulsesstirredwithinme，butthemasterimpulsewasagraveyoungdispositiontoworkandlearnandtherebyinsomenotveryclearlydefinedwaygetoutoftheWimblehurstworldintowhichIhadfallen。IwrotewithsomefrequencytoEwart，self-conscious，but，asIrememberthem，notintelligentletters，datedinLatinandwithlapsesintoLatinquotationthatrousedEwarttoparody。Therewassomethingaboutmeinthosedaysmorethanalittlepriggish。Butitwas，todomyselfjustice，somethingmorethanthepettyprideoflearning。IhadaverygravesenseofdisciplineandpreparationthatIamnotashamedatalltoremember。Iwasserious。MoreseriousthanI
amatthepresenttime。Moreserious，indeed，thananyadultseemstobe。Iwascapablethenofefforts——ofnobilities。
Theyarebeyondmenow。Idon’tseewhy，atforty，Ishouldn’tconfessIrespectmyownyouth。Ihaddroppedbeingaboyquiteabruptly。IthoughtIwaspresentlytogooutintoalargerandquiteimportantworldanddosignificantthingsthere。IthoughtIwasdestinedtodosomethingdefinitetoaworldthathadadefinitepurpose。Ididnotunderstandthen，asIdonow，thatlifewastoconsistlargelyintheworld’sdoingthingstome。
Youngpeopleneverdoseemtounderstandthataspectofthings。
And，asIsay，amongmyeducationalinfluencesmyuncle，allunsuspected，playedaleadingpart，andperhapsamongotherthingsgavemydiscontentwithWimblehurst，mydesiretogetawayfromthatcleanandpicturesqueemptiness，aformandexpressionthathelpedtoemphasiseit。Inawaythatdefinitionmademepatient。“PresentlyIshallgettoLondon。”Isaid，echoinghim。
Irememberhimnowastalking，alwaystalking，inthosedays。Hetalkedtomeoftheology，hetalkedofpolitics，ofthewondersofscienceandthemarvelsofart，ofthepassionsandtheaffections，oftheimmortalityofthesoulandthepeculiaractionsofdrugs；butpredominantlyandconstantlyhetalkedofgettingon，ofenterprises，ofinventionsandgreatfortunes，ofRothschilds，silverkings，Vanderbilts，Goulds，flotations，realisationsandthemarvelouswaysofChancewithmen——inalllocalities，thatistosay，thatarenotabsolutelysunkentothelevelofColdMuttonFat。
WhenIthinkofthoseearlytalks，Ifigurehimalwaysinoneofthreepositions。Eitherwewereinthedispensinglairbehindahighbarrier，hepoundingupthingsinamortarperhaps，andI
rollingpill-stuffintolongrollsandcuttingitupwithasortofbroad，flutedknife，orhestoodlookingoutoftheshopdooragainstthecaseofspongesandspray-diffusers，whileIsurveyedhimfrombehindthecounter，orheleantagainstthelittledrawersbehindthecounter，andIhovereddustinginfront。Thethoughtofthoseearlydaysbringsbacktomynostrilsthefaintsmellofscentthatwasalwaysintheair，marblednowwithstreaksofthisdrugandnowofthat，andtomyeyestherowsofjejuneglassbottleswithgoldlabels，mirror-reflected，thatstoodbehindhim。Myaunt，Iremember，usedsometimestocomeintotheshopinastateofaggressivesprightliness，asortofconnubialraggingexpedition，andgetmuchfunovertheabbreviatedLatinityofthosegiltinscriptions。“OlAmjig，George。”shewouldreadderisively，“andhepretendsit’salmondoil！Snap！——andthat’smustard。Didyouever，George？
“Lookathim，George，lookingdignified。I’dliketoputanoldlabelontohimroundthemiddlelikehisbottlesare，withOlPondoonit。That’sLatinforImpostor，GeorgeMUSTbe。He’dlooklovelywithastopper。”
“YOUwantastopper。”saidmyuncle，projectinghisface。
Myaunt，dearsoul，wasinthosedaysquitethinandslender，withadelicaterosebudcompletionandadispositiontoconnubialbadinage，toasortofgentleskylarking。Therewasasilveryghostoflispinginherspeech。Shewasagreathumourist，andastheconstraintofmypresenceatmealsworeoff，Ibecamemoreandmoreawareofafilmybutextensivenetofnonsenseshehadwovenaboutherdomesticrelationsuntilithadbecometherealityofherlife。Sheaffectedaderisiveattitudetotheworldatlargeandappliedtheepithet“old“tomorethingsthanIhaveeverheardlinkedtoitbeforeorsince。“Here’stheoldnews-paper。”sheusedtosay——tomyuncle。“Nowdon’tgoandgetitinthebutter，yousillyoldSardine！”
“What’sthedayoftheweek，Susan？”myunclewouldask。
“OldMonday，Sossidge。”shewouldsay，andadd，“IgotallmyOldWashingtodo。Don’tIKNOWit！”。
Shehadevidentlybeenthewitandjoyofalargecircleofschoolfellows，andthisstylehadbecomeasecondnaturewithher。Itmadeherverydelightfultomeinthatquietplace。Hercustomarywalkevenhadasortofhello！init。Herchiefpreoccupationinlifewas，Ibelieve，tomakemyunclelaugh，andwhenbysomenewnickname，somenewquaintnessorabsurdity，sheachievedthatend，shewas，behindamaskofsoberamazement，thehappiestwomanonearth。Myuncle’slaughwhenitdidcome，I
mustadmitwas，asBaedekersays，“rewarding。”Itbeganwithgustyblowingsandsnortings，andopenedintoaclear“Haha！”
butinfullestdevelopmentitincluded，inthoseyouthfuldays，fallingaboutanyhowanddoublinguptightly，andwhackingsofthestomach，andtearsandcriesofanguish。Ineverinmylifeheardmyunclelaughtohismaximumexceptather；hewascommonlytoomuchinearnestforthat，andhedidn’tlaughmuchatall，tomyknowledge，afterthoseearlyyears。AlsoshethrewthingsathimtoanenormousextentinherresolvetokeepthingslivelyinspiteofWimblehurst；spongesoutofstockshethrew，cushions，ballsofpaper，cleanwashing，bread；andonceuptheyardwhentheythoughtthatIandtheerrandboyandthediminutivemaidofallworkweresafelyoutoftheway，shesmashedaboxfulofeight-ouncebottlesIhadlefttodrain，assaultingmyunclewithanewsoftbroom。Sometimesshewouldshythingsatme——butnotoften。Thereseemedalwayslaughterroundandabouther——allthreeofuswouldsharehystericsattimes——andononeoccasionthetwoofthemcamehomefromchurchshockinglyashamedofthemselves，becauseofastormofmirthduringthesermon。Thevicar，itseems，hadtriedtoblowhisnosewithablackgloveaswellasthecustomarypocket-handkerchief。Andafterwardsshehadpickedupherownglovebythefinger，andlookinginnocentlybutintentlysideways，hadsuddenlybythissimpleexpedientexplodedmyunclealtogether。Wehaditalloveragainatdinner。
“Butitshowsyou。”criedmyuncle，suddenlybecominggrave，“whatWimblehurstis，tohaveusalllaughingatalittlethinglikethat！Weweren’ttheonlyonesthatgiggled。Notbyanymeans！And，Lord！itwasfunny！”
Socially，myuncleandauntwerealmostcompletelyisolated。InplaceslikeWimblehurstthetradesmen’slivesalwaysareisolatedsocially，allofthem，unlesstheyhaveasisterorabosomfriendamongtheotherwives，butthehusbandsmetinvariousbar-parloursorinthebilliard-roomoftheEastryArms。Butmyuncle，forthemostpart，spenthiseveningsathome。WhenfirsthearrivedinWimblehurstIthinkhehadspreadhiseffectofaboundingideasandenterpriserathertooaggressively；andWimblehurst，afteratemporarysubjugation，hadrebelledanddoneitsbesttomakeabuttofhim。Hisappearanceinapublic-houseledtoapauseinanyconversationthatwasgoingon。
