Old Tyson had cut himself adrift from his own origins.

And as the years went on he wrapped himself closer in his impenetrable garment of respectability; he was only Mr.Tyson, the gentle cultivator of orchids, until, gradually receding from view, he became a presence, a myth, a name.

But when the amazing Mr.Nevill Tyson dashed into his uncle's place, he drew all eyes on him by the very unexpectedness of his advent.

And now it seemed that Tyson, the cosmopolitan adventurer, the magnificent social bandit who trampled, so to speak, on the orchids of respectability, and rode rough-shod over the sleek traditions of Thorneytoft, was after all nothing better than a little City tailor's son.
Of course it didn't matter in the very least.

A man's a man for all that; but when the man, in his brilliant oratorical way, has intimated that you don't ride straight, and that you funk your fences, you may be forgiven if you smile a sly private smile at his expense.
And Sir Peter did more than smile, he laughed.
"So that was the goose that laid the golden eggs ?" (Ha, ha! Sir Peter had made a joke.) He went home merrily at the end of the week in his new clothes with his new idea; and as he sat in the train he kept turning that little bit of gossip over and over, and tasting it.