Her peregrinations had brought her within sight of the avenue which led from the crumbling stone entrance-gates to the north front of the house, when Vincent’s natty curricle swept into view. The arrival of her eldest-born seemed to be a matter of equal indifference to her, but she raised no objection to Anthea’s suggestion that they should go to meet him.

Before they had reached the avenue, Richmond had bounded out of the house, and was standing beside the curricle, smiling a little shyly up at his magnificent cousin. “What a hand you are! I have been watching for you this hour and more!”

The Corinthian in the curricle looked down at him, his brows lifting in exaggerated surprise. “But, my dear boy, you surely cannot have supposed that even I could accomplish more than sixty-two miles in less than five hours? Our beloved Regent, I would remind you, took four-and-a-half hours on his memorable dash to Brighton, and that road, you know, was vastly superior to this, even in those archaic times. Or did you think that my eagerness to reach the home of my ancestors—not, I apprehend, to be one day my own—would set me on the road before I had swallowed my breakfast?”

Richmond laughed. “No! Oh, lord, what a curst thing it is!—you to be cut out by this miserable fellow from Yorkshire! But what’s this new quirk, Vincent? You were always used to drive that bang-up team of grays in your curricle! Is it now the high kick of fashion to drive—unicorn, do you call it?”

“Yes,—or Sudden Death,” replied Vincent, transferring the reins into the hands of his groom. “And no, little cousin, you may not drive them. We have had enough sudden deaths in the family.”

From no one but Vincent would Richmond have tolerated such a form of address, but a cousin, nearly ten years his senior, who, in addition to being carelessly kind to him, was a buck of the first cut, might bestow whatever opprobrious epithet upon him which happened to occur to him. He protested, but with a grin; and before Vincent could roast him into defending hotly his ability to drive any number of horses, Lady Aurelia and Anthea had come up to the group.

“Well, Vincent!” said Lady Aurelia.

He had climbed down from the curricle, and he now swept off his-beaver, bowed, and with incomparable grace kissed first her hand, and then her cheek. “My dear Mama! Ah, and my dear cousin Anthea as well! A double pleasure!”

“And so unexpected!” she retorted, shaking hands with him.

His eyes glinted at her. “I never expect to find each time I come, here that you are in greater beauty than the last time I saw you. It is really quite remarkable.”

She was not in the least disconcerted by this, but only laughed, and said: “Yes, and I so stricken in years! Remarkable indeed! Where is your brother? Did you chance to see him on the road?”

“Now, that puts me in mind of something that causes me to feel the gravest concern!” he exclaimed. “I did see him—in fact, I passed him, driving, as I can’t conceive, unless it might be that at the fatal moment my attention was diverted by the new lining he has had made for his chaise (maiden’s blush I believe that particular shade of pink is called), but I very much fear that I may have ditched him.”

Richmond burst into a crow of joy. “Lord, what a famous lark! I wish I might have seen it! Hunting the squirrel!”

“No, no, how can you say such a thing?” protested Vincent, in a pained voice. “How often have I told you that such tricks as that are not at all the thing? I wonder if I can be losing my precision of eye?”

“A stupid and ill-natured prank,” pronounced Lady Aurelia, with measured severity. “If I find that Claud has sustained any injury I shall be excessively displeased.”

“Then I do most sincerely trust he has escaped injury, Mama. Unfortunately, a sharp bend in the road almost immediately hid the scene from my view, so I can give you no very certain information on that head. But never mind! Crimplesham is following me, with my luggage, you know, and I am sure we may depend upon him to render my brother all the assistance in his power. What is the time? Should I, do you think, present myself to my grandfather at once, or—No, I perceive that it lacks only ten minutes to five. I have brought my evening-dress with me, but it will take me quite an hour to dress without Crimplesham’s aid. You do still dine at six, I daresay? Such a depressing habit I find it! And my anxiety about Claud to make it worse! Poor fellow! But he shouldn’t have urged his postboys to hold the road when I wished to give him the go-by: really, I think he almost deserves to sustain some injury for being so foolish!”

When Mrs. Darracott learned of this episode, which she very soon did, from Richmond, who could not keep such a good story to himself, she was much shocked. It all went to show, she told Anthea, that everything she had ever felt about Vincent had been correct: he showed an unsteadiness of character which she would be very sorry to see in any son of hers; his temper was jealous; he was idle and expensive; and, unless she much mistook the matter (which was not at all likely), he had such libertine propensities as must cause his poor father to suffer the gravest anxiety. Or, she amended, the penance she had undergone that afternoon still fresh in her memory, they would have done so if Matthew had the smallest regard for anything but his own troubles. As for the stoic calm with which Lady Aurelia had received the news of what might well prove to have been a serious accident, that, said Mrs. Darracott, was something that quite passed her understanding. Had any son of hers been overturned into a ditch she would have had the horses put to immediately, and dashed to his rescue. She was extremely attached to Lady Aurelia, but it was impossible to forebear the thought that if Claud were to be presently borne into the house with his neck broken it would be a judgment on her.

But no judgment fell on Lady Aurelia. Claud, arriving at Darracott Place half-an-hour later, had sustained no injury, except to his temper. This, however, had been seriously impaired, and he complained so bitterly and at such length of the usage to which he had been subjected that his father lost patience, and said testily: “Oh, that’s enough, that’s enough! Vincent forced your near wheels into the ditch, and it cost you twenty minutes to haul the chaise back on to the road! Very vexing, but no harm done! If you’re at outs with Vincent, go and plant him a facer! Don’t come whining to me, like a sickly girl!”

Even Richmond, who wholeheartedly despised Claud, felt that this advice was unkind. His dislike of all forms of violence apart, Claud was both slighter and shorter than his brother: no match for him under any circumstances. He said, with pardonable indignation: “Dash it, he’d throw me out of the window!”

“Well, go away and change your dress!” said Matthew. “It won’t be Vincent, but your grandfather, who will throw you out of the window if you keep him waiting for his dinner!”

This dreadful warning had the effect of sending Claud out of the room with much the mien and speed of a coursing hare. His father and Richmond both laughed, but Mrs. Darracott was moved to say that she thought the boy had been very unkindly treated.

“Oh, pooh!” replied Matthew impatiently. “If he had ever had one half the tricks played on him which I had to endure when I was a lad it would have been the better for him! Besides, it’s his own fault, with his silly daintification, and his finicking ways. I don’t blame Vincent for making game of him!”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that making rough game of a younger brother was conduct quite unbecoming in a man of eight-and-twenty, but Matthew had begun to pout, and so she refrained, knowing as well as everyone else that the ill-will Vincent bore Claud was to some extent shared by him, and did not spring in either of them from any particular dislike of Claud’s dandyism.

Five years separated the brothers. In appearance they were not unalike, each having the aquiline nose and rather sunken eye which made them unmistakeable Darracotts; but Claud was by far the better-looking, his features being more delicate, his complexion less swarthy, and his countenance unmarred by the deep, almost sneering lines that characterized both Vincent and Lord Darracott. In general, Claud’s expression was one of slightly vacuous amiability; Vincent’s was sardonic, and frequently unpleasant.

In all but their features they were dissimilar. Vincent had a reckless intrepidity which drove him into all manner of dangerous exploits; Claud, though not (he hoped) hen-hearted, felt not the smallest impulse to ride straight at the worse oxer in the county, or to take the shine (at the risk of his neck) out of every other top-sawyer on the road; while as for putting on the gloves with Gentleman Jackson, there was almost nothing he less wished to do. But he was not without ambition. It was his ardent desire to become just such a leader of Fashion, such an arbiter of Taste, as Mr. Brummell had been, until so short a time ago. He grudged Vincent none of his fame as a member of the Corinthian set; it would not have gratified him in the least to be hailed as an out-and-outer, a regular dash, or a right cool fish: his heart was set on becoming the chief Pink of the Ton.

This ambition found no favour at all in the eyes of his parents, and would, indeed, have been impossible to realize had not a stroke of amazing good fortune befallen Claud. Hardly had he reached his majority when the maternal uncle after whom he had been named died, and left him the heir to a comfortable independence. Nothing then stood between him and the achievement of his goal but a want of genius. Try as he would he could neither create a new quirk of fashion, nor hit upon some original eccentricity which would make him instantly famous. He was obliged to exaggerate the prevailing mode, and to adopt as his own the tricks and mannerisms of other and more ingenious dandies, and somehow these expedients did not quite answer the purpose.