One evening, some weeks after the date of the last chapter, Mr. Robert Beaufort sat alone in his house in Berkeley Square. He had arrived that morning from Beaufort Court, on his way to Winandermere, to which he was summoned by a letter from his wife. That year was an agitated and eventful epoch in England; and Mr. Beaufort had recently gone through the bustle of an election--not, indeed, contested; for his popularity and his property defied all rivalry in his own county. The rich man had just dined, and was seated in lazy enjoyment by the side of the fire, which he had had lighted, less for the warmth--though it was then September--than for the companionship;--engaged in finishing his madeira, and, with half-closed eyes, munching his devilled biscuits. “I am sure,” he soliloquised while thus employed, “I don’t know exactly what to do,--my wife ought to decide matters where the girl is concerned; a son is another affair--that’s the use of a wife. Humph!” “Sir,” said a fat servant, opening the door, “a gentleman wishes to see you upon very particular business.” “Business at this hour! Tell him to go to Mr. Blackwell.” “Yes, sir.” “Stay! perhaps he is a constituent, Simmons. Ask him if he belongs to the county.” “Yes, Sir.” “A great estate is a great plague,” muttered Mr. Beaufort; “so is a great constituency. It is pleasanter, after all, to be in the House of Lords. I suppose I could if I wished; but then one must rat--that’s a bore. I will consult Lilburne. Humph!” The servant re-appeared. “Sir, he says he does belong to the county.” “Show him in!--What sort of a person?” “A sort of gentleman, sir; that is,” continued the butler, mindful of five shillings just slipped within his palm by the stranger, “quite the gentleman.” “More wine, then--stir up the fire.” In a few moments the visitor was ushered into the apartment. He was a man between fifty and sixty, but still aiming at the appearance of youth. His dress evinced military pretensions; consisting of a blue coat, buttoned up to the chin, a black stock, loose trousers of the fashion called Cossacks, and brass spurs. He wore a wig, of great luxuriance in curl and rich auburn in hue; with large whiskers of the same colour slightly tinged with grey at the roots. By the imperfect light of the room it was not perceptible that the clothes were somewhat threadbare, and that the boots, cracked at the side, admitted glimpses of no very white hosiery within. Mr. Beaufort, reluctantly rising from his repose and gladly sinking back to it, motioned to a chair, and put on a doleful and doubtful semi-smile of welcome. The servant placed the wine and glasses before the stranger;--the host and visitor were alone. “So, sir,” said Mr. Beaufort, languidly, “you are from ------shire; I suppose about the canal,--may I offer you a glass of wine?” “Most hauppy, sir--your health!” and the stranger, with evident satisfaction, tossed off a bumper to so complimentary a toast.