At length Mr. Gray was shown into the dining-room, and the baronet, who, as usual, was pacing it to and fro, suddenly turned round, and without any motion to approach his son, who stood with a dutiful look, as if to await his will, he fixed his eyes upon him with a long, steady, and scrutinizing gaze.  There they stood, contemplating each other with earnestness, and so striking, so extraordinary was the similarity between their respective features, that, in everything but years, they appeared more like two counterparts than father and son.  Each, on looking at the other, felt, in fact, the truth of this unusual resemblance, and the baronet at once acknowledged its influence.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, approaching Mr. Gray, “yes, there is no mistake here; he is my son.  I acknowledge him.”  He extended his hand, and shook that of the other, then seized both with a good deal of warmth, and welcomed him.  Ambrose, however, was not satisfied with this, but, extricating his hands, he threw his arms round the baronet’s neck, and exclaimed in the words of an old play, in which he had been studying a similar scene for the present occasion, “My father! my dear father!  Oh, and have I a father!  Oh, let me press him to my heart!” And as he spoke he contrived to execute half a dozen dry sobs (for he could not accomplish the tears), that would have done credit to the best actor of the day.

The baronet, who never relished any exhibition of emotion or tenderness, began to have misgivings as to his character, and consequently suffered these dutiful embraces instead of returning them.

“There, Tom,” he exclaimed, laughing, “that will do.  There, man,” he repeated, for he felt that Tom was about recommencing another rather vigorous attack, whilst the sobs were deafening, “there, I say; don’t throttle me; that will do, sirrah; there now.  On this occasion it is natural; but in general I detest snivelling—­it’s unmanly.”

Tom at once took the hint, wiped his eyes, a work in this instance of the purest supererogation, and replied, “So do I, father; it’s decidedly the province of an old woman when she is past everything else.  But on such an occasion I should be either more or less than man not to feel as I ought.”

“Come, that is very well said.  I hope you are not a fool like your—­Corbet, go out.  I shall send for you when we want you.  I hope,” he repeated, after Corbet had disappeared, “I hope you are not a fool, like your sister.  Not that I can call her a fool, either; but she is obstinate and self-willed.”

“I am sorry to hear this, sir.  My sister ought to have no will but yours.”

“Why, that is better,” replied the baronet, rubbing his hands cheerfully.  “Hang it, how like?” he exclaimed, looking at him once more.  “You resemble me confoundedly, Tom—­at least in person; and if you do in mind and purpose, we’ll harmonize perfectly.  Well, then, I have a thousand questions to ask you, but I will have time enough for that again; in the meantime, Tom, what’s your opinion of life—­of the world—­of man, Tom, and of woman?  I wish to know what kind of stuff you’re made of.”