“Yes, of coarse. I hate the sight of the man. But your cousin, Philip Carvel, is here, Richard. Father will be very angry. And they are making a drinking-tavern of the house.” I gave Firefly a slap that sent her trotting stable-ward, and walked rapidly to the house. I found the three of them drinking in the hall, the punch spilled over the table, and staining the cards. “Gad's life!” cries Tom, “here comes Puritan Richard, in his broad rim. How goes the crop, Richard? 'Twill have to go well, egad, for I lost an hundred at the South River Club last week!” Next him sat Philip, whom I had not seen since before I was carried off. He was lately come home from King's College; and very mysteriously, his father giving out that his health was not all it should be. He had not gained Grafton's height, but he was broader, and his face had something in it of his father. He had his mother's under lip and complexion. Grafton was sallow; Philip was a peculiar pink,--not the ruddy pink of heartier natures, like my grandfather's, nor yet had he the peach-like skin of Mr. Dix. Philip's was a darker and more solid colour, and I have never seen man or woman with it and not mistrusted them. He wore a red velvet coat embroidered with gold, and as costly ruffles as I had ever seen in London. But for all this my cousin had a coarse look, and his polished blue flints of eyes were those of a coarse man. He got to his feet as Tom spoke, looking anywhere but at me, and came forward slowly. He was loyal to no one, was Philip, not even to his father. When he was got within three paces he halted. “How do you, cousin?” says he. “A little wet, as you perceive, Philip,” I replied. I left him and stood before the fire, my rough wool steaming in the heat. He sat down again, a little awkwardly; and the situation began to please me better. “How do you?” I asked presently. “I have got a devilish cold,” said he. “Faith, I'll warrant the doctor will be sworn I have been but indifferent company since we left the Hall. Eh, doctor?” Courtenay, with his feet stretched out, bestowed an amiable but languid wink upon me, as much as to say that I knew what Mr. Philip's company was at best. When I came out after my dinner, they were still sitting there, Courtenay yawning, and Tom and Philip wrangling over last night's play. “Come, my man of affairs, join us a hand!” says the doctor to me. “I have known the time when you would sit from noon until supper.” “I had money then,” said I. “And you have a little now, or I am cursed badly mistook. Oons! what do you fear?” he exclaimed, “you that have played with March and Fox?” “I fear nothing, doctor,” I answered, smiling. “But a man must have a sorry honour when he will win fifty pounds with but ten of capital.” “One of Dr. Franklin's maxims, I presume,” says he, with sarcasm. “And if it were, it could scarce be more pat,” I retorted. “'Tis Poor Richard's maxim.”