Kester St. George at this time was thirty-three years old. He was a tall, well-built man, with something almost military in his bearing and carriage. He had bold, well-cut, aquiline features, a clear, pale olive complexion, and black, restless eyes. Black, too, jet black, were his thick eyebrows and his heavy, drooping moustache: but already his hair had faded to an iron-gray. He had one of those rare voices—low, soft, and persuasive, but perfectly clear, which are far more dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind than mere good looks can ever hope to be. It was a voice whose charm few men could resist. Yet it was so uniformly dulcet, it was pitched so perpetually in a minor key that some people came at last to think that through all its sweetness, through all that pleasant flow or words which Kester St. George could command at will, they could detect a tone of insincerity—the ring, as it were, of counterfeit metal trying to pass itself off as good, honest gold. But, then, some people are very fanciful—ridiculously so: and the majority of those who knew Kester St. George were satisfied to vote him a capital talker, and very pleasant company, and neither wished nor cared to know anything more. “It must be eight or nine years, Li, since you and I met last,” said Kester, as he helped his cousin to some coffee. “Yes, about that time,” said Lionel. “You are so altered that I should hardly have known you again.” “I suppose so,” answered Lionel. “But I should have known you anywhere.” “How?” “By your eyes.” “Ah!” A pause, while Kester leisurely chipped an egg. “Have you had any news lately from Uncle Lionel?” “I have not had a letter from India for over six months.” “What a fine old boy he is! Do you know, Li, I was quite jealous of the way he took to you; making such a pet of you, and all that? He must be getting old now.” “I believe he is either fifty-nine or sixty.” “Quite time he left the service, and settled down at home for the remainder of his days. He must have made a pot of money out there, eh?” “I don’t think Uncle Lionel is one of the money-making kind.” “He must have some scrapings somewhere. I only hope he won’t forget his graceless nephew Kester, when he comes to make his will. By-the-by, you have a brother out there, haven’t you?” “Yes. The only brother I have.” “Doing well?” “Very well.” “Ah, here comes Pierre with a couple of Digby chicks. Famous relish. Try one. And how do you like Park Newton, Li?” “I get to like it better as I become more familiar with it. It grows upon one day by day.” “Sweet old spot! For years and years I never dreamed that any one other than myself would be its master after my uncle’s death.” “We all thought the same,” said Lionel. “You will give me credit for sincerity when I say that no one could have been more surprised than I was by the contents of Uncle Arthur’s will.”