“You mean the gentleman in black?” said I; “I think not, whoever he may be, for, see, he is just shaking hands with Tracey like a man who is about to take leave. By his dress he seems a clergyman.” “Yes, don’t betray me—Percival’s London almoner. My nephew has employed him for seven years, and it is only within the last year that I discovered by accident what the employment is. He comes here when he likes—seldom stays over a day! One of those good men who are bored if they are not always about their work; and indeed he bores Percival by constantly talking of sorrow and suffering, which Percival is always wishing to relieve, but never wishes to hear discussed. You don’t know to what a degree my nephew carries his foible!” “What foible?” “That of desiring everybody to be and to look happy. A year ago, his valet, who had lived with him since he came of age, died. I found him another valet, with the highest character—the best servant possible—not a fault to find with him; but he had a very melancholy expression of countenance. This fretted Percival; he complained to me. ‘Dolman is unhappy or discontented,’ he said. ‘Find out what it is; remedy it.’ I spoke to the poor man; he declared himself most satisfied, most fortunate in obtaining such a place. Still he continued to look mournful. Percival could not stand it. One day he thrust a bank-note into the man’s hand, and said, ‘Go, friend, and before sunset look miserable elsewhere.’” I was laughing at this characteristic anecdote, when Percival entered the room with his usual beaming aspect and elastic step. “Ready?” said he; “that’s well: will you ride with me?” (this addressed to myself). “I have a capital sure-footed pony for you.” “I thought of giving your friend a seat in my pony-chaise,” said Lady Gertrude. Percival glanced at his aunt quickly, and replied, “So be it.” I should have preferred riding with Tracey; but before he set off he whispered in my ear, “It makes the dear woman happy to monopolise a new-comer—otherwise——” He stopped short, and I resigned myself to the pony-chaise. “Pray,” said Lady Gertrude, when we were fairly but slowly in movement along a shady road in the park,—“pray, don’t you think it is very much to be regretted that Percival should be single—should never have married?” “I don’t know. He seems to me very happy as he is.” “Yes, happy, no doubt. I believe he would make himself happy in a dungeon; and——” Lady Gertrude rather spitefully whipped the ponies. “Perhaps,” said I, as soon as I had recovered the first sensation of alarm, with which I am always seized when by the side of ladies who drive ponies and whip them—“perhaps,” said I—“take care of that ditch—perhaps Percival has never seen the woman with whom it would be felicity to share a dungeon?” “When you knew him first, while he was yet young, did you think him a man not likely to fall very violently in love?”