ghs in the queer Tudor
costume of Henry the Seventh; Ashleighs in chain armour, sword in hand, a
charger waiting, regardless of perspective, in the near distance;
Ashleighs befrilled and bewigged; Ashleighs in the Court dress of the
Georges--judges, sailors, statesmen and soldiers. A collection of armour
which would have gladdened the eye of many an antiquarian, was ranged
along the black-panelled walls. Everything was in harmony, even the grave
precision of the solemn-faced butler and the powdered hair of the two
footmen. Quest, perhaps for the first time in his life, felt almost lost,
hopelessly out of touch with his surroundings, an alien and a struggling
figure. Nevertheless, he entertained the little party with many stories.
He struggled all the time against that queer sensation of anachronism
which now and then became almost oppressive.

The Professor's pleasure at finding himself once more amongst these
familiar surroundings was obvious and intense. The conversation between
him and his brother never flagged. There were tenants and neighbours to be
asked after, matters concerning the estate on which he demanded
information. Even the very servants' names he remembered.

"It was a queer turn of fate, George," he declared, as he held out before
him a wonderfully chased glass filled with amber wine, "which sent you
into the world a few seconds before me and made you Lord of Ashleigh and
me a struggling scientific man."

"The world has benefited by it," Lord Ashleigh remarked, with more than
fraternal courtesy. "We hear great things of you over here, Edgar. We hear
that you have been on the point of proving most unpleasant things with
regard to our origin."

"Oh! there is no doubt about that," the Professor observed. "Where we came
from and where we are going to are questions which no longer afford room
for the slightest doubt to the really scientific mind. What sometimes does
elude us is the nature of our tendencies while we are here on earth."

"Mine, I fancy, are obvious enough," Lord Ashleigh interposed.

"Superficially, I grant it," his brother acknowledged. "As a matter of
scientific fact, I recognize the probability of your actually being a
person utterly different from what you appear. Man becomes what he is
according to the circumstances by which he is assailed. Now your life
here, George, must be a singularly uneventful one."

"Not during the last six months," Lord Ashleigh remarked, with a sigh.
"Even