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1930 when he had bought—or, rather, had had made to his specifications—the car which carried him today. It was a Hotchkiss landaulet of the most astonishing convertibility.
    The roof could be arranged so that the chauffeur was exposed to the elements and Uncle Ned enclosed in the tonneau. Or Uncle Ned could be outdoors in the back seat and the chauffeur sheltered. At other times they could both be undercover. Or, as today, the chauffeur in front could be out in the fresh air, and Uncle Ned, behind, could be on display as well. The sections of the roof above Uncle Ned and that above the driver's seat operated electrically—a daring innovation for 1930—and sometimes they operated entirely of their own volition. They were given to dark moods, those two roofs. But most of the time they stayed put, and everyone had to admit that no matter where the roofs were or what they were doing, Uncle Ned's Hotchkiss was one hell of a sight.
    It had been painted and repainted and rerepainted a spanking bottle green; upholstered and reupholstered and rereupholstered in the finest fawn broadcloth. It had two spare wheels, a luggage rack on top and an elaborately fitted trunk anchored to the poop deck. Every throb, cough and wheeze commanded the attention of a specialist. Its body was scrubbed, rubbed and massaged like a film star's. Elderly hypochondriac that it was, the car went monthly to an esoteric garage for a complete physical and semi-annually for a thorough check-up. Like Uncle Ned himself, the car was still young, still game, still dashing—if a little silly.
    "The first stop, Sturgis, will be for young Mr. Paul. That's the Futura Building," Uncle Ned called through the speaking tube. "And don't go so fast. You’re disturbing my boater.” Indeed, Uncle Ned's straw hat was tugging slightly at the elastic leash which anchored it to his lapel button.
    "Sorry, sir," Sturgis said, and decreased the speed of the car as it made its impressive way up lower Park Avenue.
    Uncle Ned was dapper. Naturally slim, he was corseted to an astonishing wasp-waistedness. As with his car, he had chosen his perfect period in clothing and stopped right there. It was, needless to say, the period of utmost elegance. His taste in suitings had reached fruition in 1910 and seeing Uncle Ned dressed for battle was like looking through a back issue of Cutter and Tailor. One could not look at Uncle Ned, dressed in his willowy city clothes, his tweed knickerbockers, his ice-cream suits, his bowlers and boaters and beavers without imagining a caption such as "For Town," "A Country Costume," "At Ascot" or "Au Croquet" printed beneath his narrow feet. His wardrobe was as unforgettable as it was extensive.
    The touring company of Floradora traveled lighter than Uncle Ned. The top of the Hotchkiss was piled high with his Hermes luggage. Packed methodically by the faithful Sturgis were Uncle Ned's dinner clothes, his cummerbunds and mess jackets, his pleated batiste evening shirts. There was a bag containing his ice-cream suits, his biscuit flannel, his striped blazers. Three suits of silk pajamas, six changes of silk underwear and an assortment of dressing gowns and smoking jackets were housed in another satchel. An outsized hatbox contained a Panama hat, a yachting cap, a cricket cap, a tweed cap, a solar topee, a gray topper and an extra straw boater.
    In the shoe trunk were carefully chalked white buckskins, boned country cordovans, glossy pumps, black calf oxfords and a variety of house slippers. The cosmetic bag held the special toilet soap, the bath essence, the Silverblu (for that persistent yellow streak in Uncle Ned's white hair), the baby oil, the youth cream, the sleep mask, the emoluments for massage, the colognes, the scent bottles, the shaving soap, the beaver brush, the four razors and four tooth brushes labeled "Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday," the various tweezers and brushes and clippers and shears for Uncle Ned's hair and mustache, the