familiarity. He was "Hugo" now to
the whole family; he had been "Mr. Luttrell" only when Percival left
Strathleckie.

He was sitting alone in his "den," as he nicknamed it, late in the
afternoon of a November day, when a low knock at the door made itself
faintly heard. Percival was smoking; having come in cold and tired, he
had wheeled an arm-chair in front of the fire, and was sitting with his
feet on the bars of the grate, whereby a faint odour of singed leather
was gradually mingling with the fumes of the very strong tobacco that he
loved. His green shaded lamp stood on a small table beside him, throwing
its light full upon the pages of the French novel that he had taken up
to read (it was "Spiridion" and he was reading it for about the
twentieth time); books and newspapers, as usual, strewed the floor, the
tables, and the chairs; well-filled book-shelves lined three of the
walls; the only ornaments were the photographs of two or three actors
and actresses, some political caricatures pinned to the walls, a couple
of foils and boxing-gloves, and on the mantelpiece a choice collection
of pipes. The atmosphere was thick, the aspect of the furniture dusty:
Percival Heron's own appearance was not at that moment calculated to
insure admiration. His hair was absolutely dishevelled; truth compels us
to admit that he had not shaved that day, and that his chin was
consequently of a blue-black colour and bristly surface, which could not
be called attractive: his clothes were shabby to the last degree, frayed
at the cuffs, and very shiny on the shoulders. Heron was a poor man, and
had a good deal of the Bohemian in his constitution: hence came a
certain contempt for appearances, which sometimes offended his friend
Vivian, as well as a real inability to spend money on clothes and
furniture without getting into debt. And Percival, extravagant as he
sometimes seemed, was never in debt: he had seen too much of it in his
father's house not to be alive to its inconveniences, and he had had the
moral courage to keep a resolution made in early boyhood, that he would
never owe money to any man. Hence came the shabbiness--and also,
perhaps, some of the arrogance--of which his friends complained.

Owing partly therefore to the shabbiness, partly to the untidiness,
partly to the very comfort of the slightly overheated room, the visitor
who entered it did not form a very high opinion of its occupant.
Percival's frown, and momentary stare o