The grand dinner-party at 500, Princes Gate, was over, the last silken train had swept down the steps, the last brougham had bowled away, and a somewhat bored-looking young man indulged in a stretch and a prodigious yawn, and strolled slowly back to the library, where the master of the house, a spruce little person of sixty, with a rosy cheek and active eye, stood before the empty fireplace (the month was June) with his coat-tails under his arms, engaged in chewing a tooth-pick. Wealthy he may be, judging from his surroundings, but he is certainly not distinguished in appearance; his scanty locks are brushed out into two sharp horns over his large ears. In spite of his blazing solitaire stud and faultless claw-hammer coat, he is plebeian; yes, from the points of his patent leather shoes to the crown of his bald head. It is difficult to believe that he is the uncle of the aristocratic young fellow who has just entered and cast himself into a deep armchair. What the French call “the look of race,” is the principal thing that strikes one about Mark Jervis. It is afterwards--possibly some time afterwards--that you realize the fact that he is remarkably handsome, and considerably older than you took him to be at the first glance. His smooth face and sunny hazel eyes are misleading: young Jervis is more than nineteen, he is five and twenty. “Well, Mark, that’s over, thank God,” exclaimed Mr. Pollitt. “I hate these big dinners; but your aunt will have them. She says we owe them; women are never backward in paying _those_ sort of debts. It was well done, hey? That new _chef_ is a success. Did you taste the Perdreaux aux Chartreuse--or the Bouchée à la financière, or that cold _entrée_?” “No, Uncle Dan,” strangling another great yawn. “Ah, you sly dog! You were too much taken up with Lady Boadicea! She is considered a beauty--at least her picture made rather a stir. What do you think? How does she strike _you_?” “To me--she looks like a wax doll that has been held too close to the fire--and she is about as animated.” “Well, you can’t say that of the American girl, Miss Clapper--there’s a complexion!--there’s animation!--there’s a stunner for you!” “A stunner, indeed! She thrust her money down my throat in such enormous quantities that I could scarcely swallow anything else!” “Then why the deuce did you not stuff some of _mine_ down hers, hey?” chuckling. “I saw you at Hurlingham this afternoon.” “Did you, sir? I had no idea you were there.” “It was a frightful squash--hardly a chair to be had; the Royalties, a fine day and a popular match, brought ’em. I suppose that was the new pony you were trying, brown with white legs. How do you like him?” “He is not handy, and he is a bit slow. He is not in the same class with Pipe-clay, or the chestnut Arab; I don’t think we will buy him, sir.”