time." But Malcolm shook his head.

"Am I not a lover of the picturesque, my dear boy? Nature intended me
for a country gentleman." Malcolm so dearly loved argument for its own
sake that he did not always consider it necessary to weigh the accurate
truth of his words. He liked to take different views of the same
subject. On more than one occasion in Cedric's hearing he had compared
himself with Charles Lamb.

Custom had made the presence of society, streets and crowds, the
theatre and the picture-gallery, an absolute necessity. Why, in some
moods he would take this as his text, and discourse most eloquently on
what he called the spectacle of the streets. "There are few days when
there are not groups of Hogarth-like figures," he would say--"sketches
from the life, abounding in humour or infinite pathos. There is a blind
beggar and his dog over in a corner by the Temple station," he
continued, "that I never can pass without putting a penny in the box.
The dog's face is perfectly human in its expression. The eyes speak. I
gave him a bone once--a meaty bone it was, too"--and here Malcolm
looked a little ashamed of himself--"in fact, it was a mutton chop, and
I stole it off the luncheon table. I kept the beggar in conversation
while he ate it. Sir," for he was addressing Amias Keston at that
moment, "that dog positively grovelled at my feet with affection and
gratitude."

"How many mutton chops has he had since?" asked his friend.

"He never had another," responded Malcolm sadly. "The carriage of a
greasy paper full of meat is too much even for my philanthropy; but I
take him dry biscuits--sometimes Spratt's meat biscuits--and tobacco
for the beggar. He is an old soldier and wears his medal; and the
dog--Boxer is his name--is like Nathan's ewe lamb to him. He has got a
crippled son--a natural he calls him--who fetches him home in the
evening. I saw him once," went on Malcolm, puffing slowly at his
cigarette, "an uncouth sort of chap on crutches; and when Boxer saw him
he nearly knocked him down, jumping on him for joy; and they all went
home together, quite a cheerful family party."

"You would not be happy away from town, Herrick," persisted Cedric;
"that's such a jolly crib of yours at Cheyne Walk;" for he had been
greatly struck by the Keston menage, and had quite fallen in love with
his quaint little hostess; while Verity, on her side, had taken very
kindly to the handsome lad, and made much of him for Malcolm's sak