any relation, and
Mr. Darrell referred him to the College-at-Arms, which proved that they
came from the same stock ages ago), left him all his money. Mr. Darrell
was not dependent on his profession when he stood up in Parliament.
And since we have been here, such savings! Not that Mr. Darrell is
avaricious, but how can he spend money in this place? You should have
seen the establishment we kept in Carlton Gardens. Such a cook too,--a
French gentleman, looked like a marquis. Those were happy days, and
proud ones! It is true that I order the dinner here, but it can't be the
same thing. Do you like fillet of veal?--we have one to-day."

"We used to have fillet of veal at school on Sundays. I thought it good
then."

"It makes a nice mince," said Mr. Fairthorn, with a sensual movement of
his lips. "One must think of dinner when one lives in the country:
so little else to think of! Not that Mr. Darrell does, but then he is
granite!"

"Still," said Lionel, smiling, "I do not get my answer. Why was the
house uncompleted? and why did Mr. Darrell retire from public life?"

"He took both into his head; and when a thing once gets there, it is
no use asking why. But," added Fairthorn, and his innocent ugly face
changed into an expression of earnest sadness,--"but no doubt he had
his reasons. He has reasons for all he does, only they lie far, far away
from what appears on the surface,--far as that rivulet lies from its
source! My dear young sir, Mr. Darrell has known griefs on which it does
not become you and me to talk. He never talks of them. The least I can
do for my benefactor is not to pry into his secrets, nor babble them
out. And he is so kind, so good, never gets into a passion; but it is
so awful to wound him,--it gives him such pain; that's why he frightens
me,--frightens me horribly; and so he will you when you come to know
him. Prodigious mind!--granite,--overgrown with sensitive plants. Yes, a
little music will do us both good."

Mr. Fairthorn screwed his flute, an exceedingly handsome one. He
pointed out its beauties to Lionel--a present from Mr. Darrell last
Christmas--and then he began. Strange thing, Art! especially music.
Out of an art, a man may be so trivial you would mistake him for an
imbecile,--at best a grown infant. Put him into his art, and how high
he soars above you! How quietly he enters into a heaven of which he has
become a denizen, and unlocking the gates with his golden key, admits
you to follo