“Yes,” answered Skelton, “but I have an old fellow that is worth all the books to me--Bulstrode; he is a Cambridge man--carried off honours every year without turning a hair, and was classed as a wonder. But, you know, when God makes a genius he spoils a man. That’s the way with Bulstrode. He’s a perfectly worthless dog as far as making a living and a respectable place in society goes. He is simply a vulgarian pumped full of knowledge and with the most extraordinary powers of assimilation. He can’t write--he has no gift of expression whatever. But I can give him ten words on a slip of paper, and in half an hour he can give me every idea and every reference upon any possible subject I demand. He is not a bad man; on the contrary, he has a sort of rude honour and conscience of his own. He refused orders in the English Church because he knew himself to be unfit. Besides looking after my books, he is tutor to Lewis Pryor, the son of an old friend and tutor of mine, the Rev. Thomas Pryor.” Skelton brought all this out in his usual calm, easy, man-of-the-world manner. At that moment the boy passed across the lawn very close to the window, where he stopped and whistled to his dog. Never were two pairs of eyes so alike as Skelton’s and this boy’s. Old Tom, turning his glance from the boy to Skelton, noticed a strange expression of fondness in Skelton’s eyes as he looked at the boy. “A very fine-looking youngster,” said old Tom. “What are you going to do with him?” “Educate him,” answered Skelton, the indifference of his tone flatly contradicting the ineffably tender look of his eyes. “Bulstrode was made his guardian by one of those freaks of dying people. Pryor knew Bulstrode as well as I do, and he also knew that I would do a good part by the boy; but for some reason, or want of reason, he chose to leave the boy in Bulstrode’s power. However, as Bulstrode is in my power, it does not greatly matter. The boy has a little property, and I intend giving him advantages. His father was a university man, and Lewis shall be too.” “I am afraid you will find the county dull after your life abroad,” said old Tom, abruptly quitting the subject of Lewis Pryor. “Not at all. I have felt for some years the necessity of settling down to work, if I ever expect to do anything. Travelling is a passion which wears itself out, just as other passions do. I can’t understand a man’s expatriating himself forever. It is one of the benefits of a landed gentry that the soil grasps it. Nothing has such a hold on a man as land. It is one of the good points of our system. You see, I now admit that there is something good in our system, which I denied so vehemently before I was old enough to vote.” “Yes,” answered Mr. Shapleigh. “Land, land, land! That’s the cry of the Anglo-Saxon all over the world. That’s why it is they are the dominant people; that’s why it is that they cannot exist on terms of equality with any other race whatever.”