Narcissus, the younger brother, had neither the height nor the good looks nor the masterful carriage of Endymion, and made no pretence to rival him as a man of affairs.  He professed to be known as the student of the family, dabbled in archaeology, and managed two or three local societies and field clubs, which met ostensibly to listen to his papers, but really to picnic.  An accident had decided this bent of his —­the discovery, during some repairs, of a fine Roman pavement beneath the floor of Bayfield House, At the age of eighteen, during a Cambridge vacation, Narcissus had written and privately printed a description of this pavement, proving not only that its tessellae represented scenes in the mythological story of Bacchus, but that the name “Bayfield,” in some old deeds and documents written “Bagvil” or “Baggevil,” was neither more nor less than a corruption of Bacchi Villa.  Axcester and its neighbourhood are rich in Roman remains—­the town stands, indeed, on the old Fosse Way—­and, tempted by early success, Narcissus rode his hobby further and further afield.  Now, at the age of forty-two, he could claim to be an authority on the Roman occupation of Britain, and especially on the conquests of Vespasian.  The circle of—­the Westcotes’ acquaintance gathered in the fine hall of Bayfield—­or, as Narcissus preferred to call it, the atrium—­drank tea, admired the pavement, listened to the alleged exploits of Vespasian, and wondered when the brothers would marry.  Time went on, repeating these assemblies; and the question became, Will they ever marry?  Apparently they had no thought of it, no idea that it was expected of them; and since they had both passed forty, the question might be taken as answered.  But that so personable a man as Endymion Westcote would let the family perish was monstrous to suppose.  He kept his good looks and his fresh complexion; even now some maiden would easily be found to answer his Olympian nod; and a vein of recklessness sometimes cropped up through his habitual caution, and kept his friends alert for surprises.  In the hunting-field, for instance,—­and he rode to hounds twice a week,—­he made a rule of avoiding fences; but the world quite rightly set this down to a proper care for his person rather than to timidity, since on one famous occasion, riding up to find the whole field hesitating before a “rasper” (they were hunting a strange country that day), he put his horse at it and sailed over with a nonchalance relieved only by his ringing laugh on the farther side.  It was odds he would clear the fence of matrimony, some day, with the same casual heartiness; and, in any case, he was masterful enough to insist on Narcissus marrying, should it occur to him to wish it.