r-mat before entering
the room, and said to herself, 'I feel very awkward.' Then she timidly
tapped at the door and went in.

Sir Nigel Christopherson was lying in bed reading the Bible. When he
was not getting into debt, or riding races, or playing polo, or loving
Mrs. Avory, Toffy generally employed his spare moments in reading the
Bible. He was a preternaturally grave young man, with large eyes and
long eyelashes of which he was properly ashamed, being inclined to
class them in his own mind with such physical disadvantages as red lips
or curling hair. Miss Abingdon thought that he was generally
misunderstood. It impressed her very favourably to find him employed
in reading Holy Scripture, and she turned away her eyes from the book,
which Toffy laid frankly on the outside of the counterpane, feeling
that the subject was too sacred to comment upon.

'How do you feel?' she said gently. 'You look very white.'

'Oh, I 'm as fit as a fiddle, thanks, Miss Abingdon,' said Toffy.

'You don't look it,' said Miss Abingdon, with a return to her severe
manner.

'I 'm really a very strong chap,' said Toffy. He had been delicate
ever since he was a little boy. School games had often been an agony
to him. He had ridden races and had lain awake all night afterwards,
unable, through sheer exhaustion, to sleep; he had played polo under
burning suns, and had concealed the fact (as though it had been a
crime) that he had fainted in the pavilion afterwards. He very seldom
had a good night's sleep, and habitual bad luck or the effort to
conceal his constitutional delicacy had given him a curious gravity of
manner, combined with a certain gentleness, which contrasted oddly with
his whimsically absurd utterances. No one ever looked more wise than
this young man, no one ever acted with more conspicuous foolishness,
and no one ever received a larger measure of ill-luck than he. If
Toffy hunted, his horse fell or went lame. If he rode in a
steeplechase, some accident, the condition of the ground, or the
position of the jumps, made the course unusually difficult for the
particular horse he was riding. Did he play polo, his most brilliant
hits just failed to make the goal. His gravity and his gentleness
increased in proportion with his ill-luck. No one ever backed Toffy,
and no one believed in his best efforts. But they borrowed his horses
and his money, and lived for months as his guests at the huge ugly
house which was hi