But Henry Halford at the age of twenty-two was far beyond that age in appearance as well as knowledge. His figure, though tall and rather slight, had a manliness of carriage seldom seen before twenty-five. The clear olive complexion looked even fair by contrast to the thick dark whiskers and eyebrows that adorned it. A beard and moustache were not then, as now, considered necessary ornaments, or we might say useful appendages for the mouth, neck, and throat. At all events, Harry Halford was pronounced handsome by those who were sufficiently intimate with him to observe the play of features, the mobile mouth, and the intelligent sparkling of the deep blue eyes while conversing, although the former was large and displayed want of firmness, and the nose scarcely escaped being pronounced a snub. Such was the young tutor who now sat in the class-room of the Grange, reading some Greek author, and quite oblivious to the unchecked noise made by the early arrival of day pupils and the boarders in the room. He had a wonderful power of concentrating his mind on any one subject in spite of surroundings which would have driven some students crazy. The brass bands or a grinding organ might have paraded London streets in peace so far as Henry Halford was concerned. And his sister and cousin would often practise together for hours in winter, in a room close to his little study, uncomplained of by him even when a boy. As he grew older, and after Fanny left home on her marriage, he would often say to Kate Marston, "Why don't you practise, Kate? I assure you it will not disturb me." But Kate, after his return from Dr. Mason's, seldom touched the piano while he was in the house; her love of music was so true that she could not understand the possibility of not being disturbed in any mental employment by the _practice_, not the _perfect_ performance of a piece of music. Well and correctly played, a beautiful air falls on the ear as melodious harmony without disturbing any mental effort then occupying the mind; but to a true musician every false note, every break of tune or measure, jars upon the senses, and attracts other mental powers beyond the mere sense of hearing, and totally breaks up for a time the disturbed train of thought. But Henry Halford was no musician, and therefore not liable to interruptions of this kind, nor indeed of any other, as his present oblivion in the class-room plainly indicates. Even the opening of the door failed to disturb him, and it was only when a sudden silence fell on the rebels that the voice of his father made itself heard. Henry started from his seat, closed the book, and followed Dr. Halford, who beckoned him out of the room. "Mrs. Armstrong is in the drawing-room, Henry. I suppose she has brought her little boy. Will you go and see her? I fear she will detain me. The clock has struck nine, and I will get these boys into order while you are gone."