Marie Arnaud, spy [antikvár]

"You are a silly young ass." "Yes, uncle." "Not only that, but you are a blithering idiot, an emptyheaded fool, an eífeminate nincompoop." "Yes, uncle." "You are scatter-brained, idle, good-for-nothing. You can spend money, without showing any reasonable return for it, quicker than anyone of whom I have ever heard, read, or seen. You probably know every chorus girl in town. Your clothes fit you like those of a tailor's dummy; you haven't even any individuality in your dress. "You are damned moderate in everything you do, you smoke a little, swear a little, drink a little; even the women I have seen with you have been little. Altogether, in fact, what do you sound like to yourself?" Hartley grinned amiably. "Undoubtedly the nephew of my uncle." Major Witham snorted. "Just the type of nonsensical answer I expected of you. Teli me, is there anyone in this whole, wide world who doesn't know you for what you are?" His nephew leisurely shrugged his shoulders. "If there are, they will soon know otherwise. Drop your voice, uncle, old man, the din is deafening." "Damn the nőise! The more people who know what I think of you the better. Young puppy, teliing me to drop my voice. The point is, do you, or do you not, agree that everyone believes you to be a top-hole fathead?" ^Crudely put, but emphatically the truth." "Then, sir-" and Major Witham dropped his voice, "you are just the man I want. I have a commission for you to perform." Hartley Witham stared at his uncle with amused amazement. So suddenly had the major's explosive ejaculations fizzled down to damp gunpowder that he was startled out of his complacent composure. "What on earth-" he began, but beyond that he could say nothing. It remained for the major to speak.