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CHAPTER III . At half - past twelve next day Lord Henry Wotton strolled from Curzon Street over to the Albany to call on his uncle , Lord Fermor , a genial if somewhat rough - mannered old bachelor , whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him , but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him . His father had been our ambassador at Madrid when Isabella was young and Prim unthought of , but had retired from the diplomatic service in a capricious moment of annoyance on not being offered the Embassy at Paris , a post to which he considered that he was fully entitled by reason of his birth , his indolence , the good English of his dispatches , and his inordinate passion for pleasure . The son , who had been his father’s secretary , had resigned along with his chief , somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time , and on succeeding some months later to the title , had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing . He had two large town houses , but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble , and took most of his meals at his club . He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties , excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth . In politics he was a Tory , except when the Tories were in office , during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals . He was a hero to his valet , who bullied him , and a terror to most of his relations , whom he bullied in turn . Only England could have produced him , and he always said that the country was going to the dogs . His principles were out of date , but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices . When Lord Henry entered the room , he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting - coat , smoking a cheroot and grumbling over The Times . “ Well , Harry , ” said the old gentleman , “ what brings you out so early ? I thought you dandies never got up till two , and were not visible till five . ” “ Pure family affection , I assure you , Uncle George . I want to get something out of you . ” “ Money , I suppose , ” said Lord Fermor , making a wry face . “ Well , sit down and tell me all about it . Young people , nowadays , imagine that money is everything . ” “ Yes , ” murmured Lord Henry , settling his button - hole in his coat ; “ and when they grow older they know it . But I don’t want money . It is only people who pay their bills who want that , Uncle George , and I never pay mine . Credit is the capital of a younger son , and one lives charmingly upon it . Besides , I always deal with Dartmoor’s tradesmen , and consequently they never bother me . What I want is information : not useful information , of course ; useless information . ”
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