The old gentleman, who was declaiming before the looking-glass in his shirt-sleeves and crimson silk suspenders, brushing up that pyramid of grizzled hair which added to the solemnity of his effect, now got into his black silk waistcoat. The dressing-bell had rung, and the candles had superseded daylight. "You'll observe all I told you, Guy. Sir Jekyl shan't marry--he would grow what they call impracticable, like Madame Gwynn; Miss Beatrix, _she_ shan't marry either--it would make, perhaps, new difficulties; and you, I may as well tell you, _can't_ marry her. When you know the reasons you will see that such an event _could not be contemplated_. You understand?" And he dropped his haircomb, with which he had been bestowing a last finish on his spire of hair, upon his dressing-table, with a slight emphasis. "Therefore, Guy, you will understand you must not be a fool about that young lady; there are many others to speak to; and if you allow yourself to like her, you will be a miserable stripling till you forget her." "There is no need, sir, to warn me; I have resolved to avoid any such feeling. I have sense enough to see that there are obstacles insurmountable to my ever cherishing that ambition, and that I never could be regarded as worthy." "Bravo! young man, that is what I like; you are as modest as the devil; and _here_, I can tell you, modesty, which is so often silly, is as wise as the serpent. You understand?" The large-chested gentleman was now getting into his capacious coat, having buttoned his jewelled wrist-studs in; so he contemplated himself in the glass, with a touch and a pluck here and there. "One word more, about that old woman. Talk to her all you please, and let _her_ talk--and talk _more_ than you, so much the better; but observe, she will question you about yourself and your connections, and one word you shall not answer; observe she learns nothing from you, that is, in the spirit of your solemn promise to me." M. Varbarriere had addressed this peremptory reminder over his shoulder, and now retouched his perpendicular cone of hair, which waved upwards like a grey flame. "Guy, you will be late," he called over his shoulder. "Come, my boy; we must not be walking in with the entremets." And he plucked out that huge chased repeater, a Genevan masterpiece, which somehow harmonised, with his air of wealth and massiveness, and told him he had hut eight minutes left; and with an injunction to haste, which Guy, with a start, obeyed, this sable and somewhat mountainous figure swayed solemnly from the room. "Who _is_ that Monsieur Varbarriere?" inquired Lady Alice of her host, as the company began to assemble in the drawing-room, before that gentleman had made his appearance. "I have not a notion." "Are you serious? No, you're _not_ serious," served Lady Alice. "I'm _always_ serious when I talk to you." "Thank you. I'm sure that is meant for a compliment," said the old lady, curtly.