ant--a tall, graceful man of forty,
clothed with that elegant carelessness which we call perfection, so
strikingly unobtrusive was his dress, so faultless and unstudied his
bearing.

There was no dust upon him, though he had driven miles; his clean skin
was cool and pleasantly tinted with the sun of summer, spotless his
lace at cuff and throat, and the buckles flashed at stock and knee and
shoe as he passed through the candle-light to lay a familiar hand upon
my shoulder.

"What's new, Carus?" he asked, and his voice had ever that pleasant
undertone of laughter which endears. "You villain, have you been making
love to Elsin Grey, that she should come babbling of Mr. Renault, Mr.
Renault, Mr. Renault ere I had set foot in my own hallway? It was
indecent, I tell you--not a word for me, civil or otherwise, not a
question how I had 'scaped the Skinners at Kingsbridge--only a flutter
of ribbons and a pair of pretty hands to kiss, and 'Oh, Cousin
Coleville! Is Mr. Renault kin to me, too?--for I so take it, having
freely bantered him to advantage at first acquaintance. Was I bold,
cousin?--but if you only knew how he tempted me--and he _is_ kin to you,
is he not?--and you are Cousin Betty's husband.' 'God-a-mercy!' said I,
'what's all this about Mr. Renault?--a rogue and a villain I shame to
claim as kin, a swaggering, diceing, cock-fighting ruffler, a-raking it
from the Out-Ward to Jew Street! Madam, do you dare admit to me that you
have found aught to attract you in the company of this monument of
foppery known as Carus Renault?'"

"Did you truly say that, Sir Peter?" I asked, wincing while my ears
grew hot.

"Say it? I did not say it, I bellowed it!" He shrugged his shoulders
and took snuff with an air. "The minx finds you agreeable," he
observed; "why?--God knows!"

"I had not thought so," I said, in modest deprecation, yet warming at
his words.

"Oh--had not thought so!" he mimicked, mincing over to the
dressing-table and surveying the array of perfumes and pomades and
curling irons. "Carus, you shameless rake, you've robbed all Queen
Street! Essence, pomade-de-grasse, almond paste, bergamot, orange,
French powder! By Heaven, man, do you mean to take the lady by storm or
set up a rival shop to Smith's 'Sign of the Rose'? Here, have your man
leave those two puffs above the ears; curl them loosely--that's it! Now
tie that queue-ribbon soberly; leave the flamboyant papillon style to
those damned Lafayettes and Rocha