Those of us who had access to his rooms often wondered how he ever got out of them looking so immaculate, for they were a perfectly impassable jungle to the stranger.  Such a tangle of trunks, hand-bags, rug bundles, clothes, boots, pajamas, newspapers, scrap-books, B. & S. bottles, could hardly be found anywhere else in the world.  He had a fondness for newspaper clippings, and had trunks of them, sorted into bundles or pasted in scrap-books.  Old volumes of Bell’s Life filled more than one trunk, and on one occasion when he and I were spending a long evening together, in celebration of his recent recovery from an attack of gout, and when he had done more than usual justice to the B. & S. bottles and less than usual justice to his gout, he showed me the record of a long-gone year in which this same Bell’s Life called him the “first among the gentlemen riders in the United Kingdom,” and proved this assertion by showing how he had won most of the great steeple-chases in England and Ireland, riding his own horses.  This was the nearest approach to boasting that ever came to my knowledge in the years of our close friendship, and I would never have thought of it as such had I not seen that he regarded it as unwarrantable self-praise.

I have never known a more simple, kind-hearted, agreeable, and lovable gentleman than this broken-down sporting man and gambler.  I loved him as a brother; and though he has passed out of my life, I still love the memory of his genial face, his courtesy, his unselfish friendship, more than words can express.  A tender heart and a gentle spirit found strange housing in a body given over to reckless prodigality.  The combination, tempered by time and exhaustion, showed nothing that was not lovable; and it is scant praise to say that Sir Thomas was much to me.

He was just as acceptable to Polly.  No woman could fail to appreciate the homage which he never failed to show to the wife and mother.  Many winter evenings at Four Oaks were made brighter by his presence, and we grew to expect him at least three nights each week.  His plate was placed on our round table these nights, and he rarely failed to use it; and the B. & S. bottles were near at hand, and his favorite brand of cigars within easy reach.

“I light a ‘baccy’ by your permission, Mrs. Williams,” and a courtly bow accompanied the words.

At 9.30 William came to bring Sir Tom home.  The leave-taking was always formal with Polly, but with me it was, “Ta-ta, Williams—­see you later,” and our guest would hobble out on his poor crippled feet, waving his hand gallantly, with a voice as cheery as a boy’s.

Another family whom I wish the reader to know well is the Kyrles.  For more than twenty-five years we have known no joys or sorrows which they did not feel, and no interests that touched them have failed to leave a mark on us.  We could not have been more intimate or better friends had the closest blood tie united us.  The acquaintance of young married couples had grown into a friendship that was bearing its best fruit at a time when best fruit was most appreciated.  We do not consider a pleasure more than half complete until we have told it to Will and Frances Kyrle, for their delight doubles our happiness.