Returning from the day’s sport midway through the afternoon, Nicky strolled up to the house by the short cut that led through the surrounding woodland in time to see an elegant post-chaise-and-four drawn up before the front door. As he paused, in surprise, a very obvious gentleman’s gentleman jumped down from it, a dressing case in his hand, which he tenderly set down on the porch before turning back to assist his master to alight.

A slim and exquisite figure descended languidly onto the drive and stood with the utmost patience while I the valet straightened the numerous capes of his greatcoat and anxiously passed a handkerchief over the gleaming surface of a pair of well-cut Hessian boots. A high-crowned gray beaver with a curling brim was set at a slightly rakish angle on the gentleman’s head of glossy chestnut curls. He wore one gray glove and carried the other in the same hand, together with an ebony walking cane. From under the brim of his hat a pair of weary, blue eyes gazed in insufferable boredom at nothing in particular. Their expression of worldly cynicism made them sit oddly in a face decidedly round, and a nose inclined to the retroussé, and an almost womanishly delicate mouth and chin.

“Hell and the devil confound it!” uttered Nicky under his breath, recognizing the visitor.

Bouncer, who had been standing with his tail up and his ears on the prick, needed no more encouragement than these muttered words to send him forward like a bolt from the blue to execute his clear duty. Barking like a fiend, he launched himself upon the intruder.

The exquisite gentleman whirled about at the first bark, and as Bouncer came at full tilt across the ill-kept lawn, his ungloved right hand grasped the ivory top of his cane, deftly twisted it and drew a thin, wicked blade hissing from the ebony stick that formed its sheath.

“Heel, Bouncer!” Nicky roared, terror for his pet lending such ferocity to his voice that Bouncer checked in mid-career, dropping tail and ears, and cowering to the earth in startled dismay.

Nicky came striding up, his eyes sparkling with wrath, his countenance flushed, and sternly admonished Bouncer.

The visitor kept his swordstick poised but raised his eyes, suddenly very wide open, to Nicky’s face. He was breathing a little fast, but his lips smiled, and he said smoothly: “I do not—like—dogs!”

“By God, Cheviot, if you so much as touch my dog with that blade of yours I’ll ram it down your gullet!” swore Nicky, glaring at him.

The smile grew, the arched brows rose. Francis Cheviot restored his blade to its sheath. “What, Nicholas! Determined to purge the world of Cheviots?”

Nicky’s color darkened and his fists clenched themselves involuntarily. Francis Cheviot laughed softly and patted his shoulder with one white hand. “There, there!” he said soothingly. “I was only funning, dear boy! I am sure you would not really ram my blade down my throat.”

“You harm my dog, and you need not be so sure of that!” said Nicky pugnaciously.

“Oh, but I am, Nicholas! I cannot help but be sure of it,” Francis said, in dulcet accents. “But tell me, dear boy, is it quite—quite in the best of good ton for you to be here? Under the circumstances—and pray do not imagine that I blame you for them, for nothing could be farther from my thoughts!—but under these circumstances, do you not feel—No, I see you do not, and indeed, who am I to presume to set myself up as an arbiter? The situation is something quite out of my line.”

“I am staying here,” said Nicky curtly.

“Ah, indeed? How very piquant, to be sure! Crawley, I do trust that you have rung that bell, for if I stand in this disagreeable wind you know I shall take cold, and my colds always descend upon my chest. How thoughtless it was in you to have handed me down from the chaise until the door had been opened! Ah, here is that deplorable henchman! Yes, Barrow, it is I indeed. Take my hat—no, Crawley had best take my hat, perhaps. And yet, if he does so, who is to assist me out of my greatcoat? How difficult all these arrangements are! Ah, a happy thought. You have laid my hat down, Crawley! I do not know where I should be without you. Now my coat, and pray be careful! Where is a mirror? Crawley, you cannot have been so foolish as to have packed all my hand mirrors! No, I thought not. Hold it a little higher, I beg of you, and give me my comb! Yes, that will serve. Barrow, you may announce me to your mistress!”

“Ay, justabout I may!” said the retainer, glowering at him, “It queers me what brings you here, sir, but I’ll tell you to your head you ain’t wanted!”

“Ah, and now that you have told me, announce me, Barrow!” replied Francis affably. “And pray do not bring that dog in, dear Nicholas! I have the greatest dread of dogs, and I know you would not wish to upset me. Really an antipathy, you know! Is it not strange? They say that a liking for dogs is such an English characteristic, and I am sure I am quite English. Cats, now! There is something so admirable in a cat, don’t you agree? No, of course you do not! Barrow, am I to be kept standing in this drafty hall for very much longer, because if so I must have my coat on again?”

Barrow gave vent to his feelings in a snort, but walked over to the parlor and flung open the door, saying with bitter ceremony, “The Honorable Francis Cheviot, ma’am!”

Elinor, who was seated at the escritoire by the window, turned a startled face, and rose quickly. “The—?”

“Yes, it’s Francis Cheviot,” said Nicky sulkily. “But what he wants here I don’t know!”

Francis trod delicately across the room toward his hostess, a hand held out, and his countenance wreathed in smiles. “My dear Mrs. Cheviot, how do you do? Ah, what a foolish question! How can you do in this sad hour? Allow me to offer you my sincerest condolences upon this unhappy event!”

Rather bewildered, she gave him her hand, curtsying slightly. He bowed over it with punctilious grace. She said, stammering a little, “How do you do? I beg your pardon—I was not expecting—”

“Not expecting me?” he said, in a shocked voice. “My dear Mrs. Cheviot—or may I call you cousin?—my dear Cousin, who can have been giving you such a false, unkind portrait of me? I am sure it was not Nicholas! That little rusticity of manner which I am persuaded will be polished away in time, hides a heart of gold, you know! No, no, I must hold the dear boy absolved! But my poor Cousin Eustace—you cannot have supposed I should absent myself from his obsequies! I never neglect those gestures which cost one so little, after all! But I am quite put out of countenance by finding Nicholas here! It is not that I am not delighted to meet him. In fact, I am transported. But I do not know just how I should conduct myself toward him. You see, I am a mourner, and he—dear me, what delicate ground I seem to be on!”

“I wish you will stop humbugging on forever!” snapped Nicky. “You never cared a button for Eustace!”

“Now, this is not just, Nicholas! This Is not like you! Poor dear Eustace! Such a deplorable character! The very worst of bad ton! Always a source of pain to me, but do not let us speak ill of the dead! Death makes the worst of men instantly respectable, you know. Ah, dear Mrs. Cheviot, I should have explained that I am here in a dual role! Yes, indeed: cousin and uncle combined. How odd it seems! I do trust I can carry it off with grace.”

“Lord Bedlington—does not come to the funeral?” Elinor faltered, quite dazed by all this gentle eloquence.

“Alas! His kind compliments, dear Cousin—his deepest regrets—I am the bearer of his most heartfelt apologies! Prostrate!”

“Eh?” gasped Nicky.

Francis sighed. “I left him laid upon his bed, in the greatest anguish. His old enemy, you know: gout, dear boy! The agitation he has suffered—or perhaps it may have been that horridly cold drive, who can say?—brought on one of his most severe attacks. Impossible for him to venture out of his house! So here I am, in my dual role. I do trust—not unwelcome?”

“Oh, no!” Elinor said quickly. “How could you think—Pray, will you not be seated, sir? You are staying—that is, I expect you are putting up at—”

“You are all goodness, Cousin! My father did indeed encourage me to hope that I should find a welcome at Highnoons. But do not put yourself out, I beg of you! I dare say I shall be very comfortable in whatever bedchamber you choose to bestow me, as long as the chimney does not smoke—yes, I retain the most hideous memories of my last visit to this house—and the aspect is not north. My physician warns me particularly against cold rooms, you know, for my constitution is not at all robust.”

She knew not what to say, for the dictates of civility forbade her to utter the only reply that rose to her mind. Nicky, whose notions were not so nice, said bluntly, ‘“You will scarcely stay here, Cheviot! The inn at Wisborough Green has several decent rooms.”

Francis answered him with unshaken urbanity, “I should not dare to take so great a risk, for you must know that I have not brought my own sheets with me, and I make it a rule never to stay at an inn without them. One can never be certain that the beds have been properly aired. Dear me, I am quite overcome to think I should be putting Mrs. Cheviot to inconvenience!”

Elinor felt herself obliged to disclaim, and to say that she would give instructions to have a room prepared for him. He thanked her and said that he should be happy in the Yellow Room.

“Well, you will not!” said Nicky incorrigibly; “That is Mrs. Cheviot’s room!”

“Ah, then, on no account would I wish her to remove from it!” Francis said. “It really makes not the smallest difference to me, so do not, I beg of you, Cousin, dream of giving it up! That would put me quite put of countenance. Put me in poor Eustace’s bedchamber! It is a trifle somber, perhaps, but I shall not regard that.”