“—­fellow!” I added.

“Fellow!” nodded Sir Maurice.  “Oh, the devil! to think of my worthy cousin reduced to the necessity of laboring with hammer and saw—­”

“Not a saw,” I put in.

“We will say, chisel, then—­a Vibart with hammer and chisel —­deuce take me!  Most distressing! and, you will pardon my saying so, you do not seem to thrive on hammers and chisels; no one could say you looked blooming, or even flourishing like the young bay tree (which is, I fancy, an Eastern expression).”

“Sir,” said I, “may I remind you that I have work to do?”

“A deuced interesting place though, this,” he smiled, staring round imperturbably through his glass; “so—­er—­so devilish grimy and smutty and gritty—­quite a number of horseshoes, too.  D’ye know, cousin, I never before remarked what a number of holes there are in a horseshoe—­but live and learn!” Here he paused to inhale a pinch of snuff, very daintily, from a jewelled box.  “It is a strange thing,” he pursued, as he dusted his fingers on his handkerchief, “a very strange thing that, being cousins, we have never met till now—­especially as I have heard so very much about you.”

“Pray,” said I, “pray how should you hear about one so very insignificant as myself?”

“Oh, I have heard of good Cousin Peter since I was an imp of a boy!” he smiled.  “Cousin Peter was my chart whereby to steer through the shoals of boyish mischief into the haven of our Uncle George’s good graces.  Oh, I have heard over much of you, cousin, from dear, kind, well-meaning relatives and friends—­damn ’em!  They rang your praises in my ears, morning, noon, and night.  And why?—­simply that I might come to surpass you in virtue, learning, wit, and appearance, and so win our Uncle George’s regard, and, incidentally, his legacy.  But I was a young demon, romping with the grooms in the stable, while you were a young angel in nankeens, passing studious hours with your books.  When I was a scapegrace at Harrow, you were winning golden opinions at Eton; when you were an ‘honors’ man at Oxford, I was ‘rusticated’ at Cambridge.  Naturally enough, perhaps, I grew sick of the name of Peter (and, indeed, it smacks damnably of fish, don’t you think?)—­you, or your name, crossed me at every turn.  If it wasn’t for Cousin Peter, I was heir to ten thousand a year; but good Cousin Peter was so fond of Uncle George, and Uncle George was so fond of good Cousin Peter, that Maurice might go hang for a graceless dog and be damned to him!”

“You have my deepest sympathy and apologies!” said I.

“Still, I have sometimes been curious to meet worthy Cousin Peter, and it is rather surprising that I have never done so.”

“On the contrary—­” I began, but his laugh stopped me.