for straight they could not go.  The humour of gentlemen at home is always highly excited by such cool feats.  We are a small island, but you see what we do.  The ladies at the Hall, Sir Willoughby’s mother, and his aunts Eleanor and Isabel, were more affected than he by the circumstance of their having a Patterne in the Marines.  But how then!  We English have ducal blood in business:  we have, genealogists tell us, royal blood in common trades.  For all our pride we are a queer people; and you may be ordering butcher’s meat of a Tudor, sitting on the cane-bottom chairs of a Plantagenet.  By and by you may . . . but cherish your reverence.  Young Willoughby made a kind of shock-head or football hero of his gallant distant cousin, and wondered occasionally that the fellow had been content to dispatch a letter of effusive thanks without availing himself of the invitation to partake of the hospitalities of Patterne.

He was one afternoon parading between showers on the stately garden terrace of the Hall, in company with his affianced, the beautiful and dashing Constantia Durham, followed by knots of ladies and gentlemen vowed to fresh air before dinner, while it was to be had.  Chancing with his usual happy fortune (we call these things dealt to us out of the great hidden dispensary, chance) to glance up the avenue of limes, as he was in the act of turning on his heel at the end of the terrace, and it should be added, discoursing with passion’s privilege of the passion of love to Miss Durham, Sir Willoughby, who was anything but obtuse, experienced a presentiment upon espying a thick-set stumpy man crossing the gravel space from the avenue to the front steps of the Hall, decidedly not bearing the stamp of the gentleman “on his hat, his coat, his feet, or anything that was his,” Willoughby subsequently observed to the ladies of his family in the Scriptural style of gentlemen who do bear the stamp.  His brief sketch of the creature was repulsive.  The visitor carried a bag, and his coat-collar was up, his hat was melancholy; he had the appearance of a bankrupt tradesman absconding; no gloves, no umbrella.

As to the incident we have to note, it was very slight.  The card of Lieutenant Patterne was handed to Sir Willoughby, who laid it on the salver, saying to the footman, “Not at home.”

He had been disappointed in the age, grossly deceived in the appearance of the man claiming to be his relative in this unseasonable fashion; and his acute instinct advised him swiftly of the absurdity of introducing to his friends a heavy unpresentable senior as the celebrated gallant Lieutenant of Marines, and the same as a member of his family!  He had talked of the man too much, too enthusiastically, to be able to do so.  A young subaltern, even if passably vulgar in figure, can be shuffled through by the aid of the heroical story humourously exaggerated in apology for his aspect.  Nothing can be done with a mature and stumpy Marine of that rank.  Considerateness dismisses him on the spot, without parley.  It was performed by a gentleman supremely advanced at a very early age in the art of cutting.