Now, glancing up at his brow, I saw there a small, newly healed scar.

“Is it possible?” said he, speaking in that softly modulated voice I remembered to have heard once before.  “Can it be possible that I address my worthy cousin?  That shirt! that utterly impossible coat and belcher!  And yet—­the likeness is remarkable!  Have I the—­honor to address Mr. Peter Vibart—­late of Oxford?”

“The same, sir,” I answered, rising.

“Then, most worthy cousin, I salute you,” and he removed his hat, bowing with an ironic grace.  “Believe me, I have frequently desired to see that paragon of all the virtues whose dutiful respect our revered uncle rewarded with the proverbial shilling.  Egad!” he went on, examining me through his glass with a great show of interest, “had you been any other than that same virtuous Cousin Peter whose graces and perfections were forever being thrown at my head, I could have sympathized with you, positively —­if only on account of that most obnoxious coat and belcher, and the grime and sootiness of things in general.  Poof!” he exclaimed, pressing his perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils, “faugh! how damnably sulphur-and-brimstony you do keep yourself, cousin—­oh, gad!”

“You would certainly find it much clearer outside,” said I, beginning to blow up the fire.

“But then, Cousin Peter, outside one must become a target for the yokel eye, and I detest being stared at by the uneducated, who, naturally, lack appreciation.  On the whole, I prefer the smoke, though it chokes one most infernally.  Where may one venture to sit here?” I tendered him the stool, but he shook his head, and, crossing to the anvil, flicked it daintily with his handkerchief and sat down, dangling his leg.

“’Pon my soul!” said he, eyeing me languidly through his glass again, “’pon my soul! you are damnably like me, you know, in features.”

“Damnably!” I nodded.

He glanced at me sharply, and laughed.

“My man, a creature of the name of Parks,” said he, swinging his spurred boot to and fro, “led me to suppose that I should meet a person here—­a blacksmith fellow—­”

“Your man Parks informed you correctly,” I nodded; “what can I do for you?”

“The devil!” exclaimed Sir Maurice, shaking his head; “but no —­you are, as I gather, somewhat eccentric, but even you would never take such a desperate step as to—­to—­”

“—­become a blacksmith fellow?” I put in.

“Precisely!”

“Alas, Sir Maurice, I blush to say that rather than become an unprincipled adventurer living on my wits, or a mean-spirited hanger-on fawning upon acquaintances for a livelihood, or doing anything rather than soil my hands with honest toil, I became a blacksmith fellow some four or five months ago.”

“Really it is most distressing to observe to what depths Virtue may drag a man!—­you are a very monster of probity and rectitude!” exclaimed Sir Maurice; “indeed I am astonished! you manifested not only shocking bad judgment, but a most deplorable lack of thought (Virtue is damnably selfish as a rule)—­really, it is quite disconcerting to find one’s self first cousin to a blacksmith—­”