You might see they were brothers.  They had the same bushy eyebrows, the same healthy colour in their cheeks, the same thick shoulders, and brisk way of speaking, and clear, sharp, though kindly, eyes; only Tom was cast in larger proportions than Andrew, and had gotten the grey furniture of Time for his natural wear.  Perhaps, too, a cross in early life had a little twisted him, and set his mouth in a rueful bunch, out of which occasionally came biting things.  Mr. Andrew carried his head up, and eyed every man living with the benevolence of a patriarch, dashed with the impudence of a London sparrow.  Tom had a nagging air, and a trifle of acridity on his broad features.  Still, any one at a glance could have sworn they were brothers, and Jonathan unhesitatingly proclaimed it at the Aurora bar.

Mr. Andrew’s hands were working together, and at them, and at his face, the old gentleman continued to look with a firmly interrogating air.

’Want to know what brings me, Tom?  I’ll tell you presently.  Hot,—­isn’t it?’

‘What the deuce are you taking exercise for?’ the old gentleman burst out, and having unlocked his mouth, he began to puff and alter his posture.

‘There you are, thawed in a minute!’ said Mr. Andrew.  ’What’s an eccentric? a child grown grey.  It isn’t mine; I read it somewhere.  Ah, here’s the Port! good, I’ll warrant.’

Jonathan deferentially uncorked, excessive composure on his visage.  He arranged the table-cloth to a nicety, fixed the bottle with exactness, and was only sent scudding by the old gentleman’s muttering of:  ‘Eavesdropping pie!’ followed by a short, ‘Go!’ and even then he must delay to sweep off a particular crumb.

‘Good it is!’ said Mr. Andrew, rolling the flavour on his lips, as he put down his glass.  ‘I follow you in Port, Tom.  Elder brother!’

The old gentleman also drank, and was mollified enough to reply:  ’Shan’t follow you in Parliament.’

‘Haven’t forgiven that yet, Tom?’

‘No great harm done when you’re silent.’

‘Capital Port!’ said Mr. Andrew, replenishing the glasses.  ’I ought to have inquired where they kept the best Port.  I might have known you’d stick by it.  By the way, talking of Parliament, there’s talk of a new election for Fallow field.  You have a vote there.  Will you give it to Jocelyn?  There’s talk of his standing.

‘If he’ll wear petticoats, I’ll give him my vote.’

‘There you go, Tom!’

’I hate masquerades.  You’re penny trumpets of the women.  That tattle comes from the bed-curtains.  When a petticoat steps forward I give it my vote, or else I button it up in my pocket.’

This was probably one of the longest speeches he had ever delivered at the Aurora.  There was extra Port in it.  Jonathan, who from his place of observation noted the length of time it occupied, though he was unable to gather the context, glanced at Mr. Andrew with a sly satisfaction.  Mr. Andrew, laughing, signalled for another pint.