"You _are_ a funny little Tinker," said Sir Tancred fondly.
"Mine Tinker. Mine Tinker!" said the child with a faint crow.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE TRAINING OF TINKER
Sir Tancred had a very sound theory that the air of London is as
healthy an air as can be breathed in England; but for all that Tinker
enjoyed the best quality of that air, on the roof of the Hotel Cecil,
varied by the ozone of Brighton and the air of many parts of the
country, it was many a long day before he showed a real tendency
towards sturdiness, and outgrew the effects of his privations. He was
long, too, outgrowing his terror of strangers.
Meanwhile Sir Tancred was trying to slake his intolerable thirst for
distraction, distraction from his memories and regrets, in that section
of London Society which, let us hope, cannot see itself for its own
brilliancy, or hear itself for its own noise, that curious collection
of Princes and millionaires, aristocrats and tradesmen, great ladies
and upper Bohemians, about which the only fitting thing is its title,
found for it by some inspired journalist, of the Smart Set. There,
where life forever bubbles a cheap and exceedingly dry champagne of a
very doubtful exhilaration, he did now and again find a poor respite
from regret till time blunted the edge of his sorrows.
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