It was a gentlemanly face, was old Heyward’s, though, if you happened to be a judge of faces, you would probably have added “a weak one.” Yes, and—No. Not strong, certainly, in intellect or knowledge, though the features are scored with deep-cut lines, that might be mistaken by the casual observer for traces of reflective thought. But lines traced by the hand of intellect ennoble and brighten the face, even in the act of carving it; these had only soured and embittered it. Such strength as they show is the strength of a dogged persistency, which clings to an opinion, right or wrong, because it admits no counter argument, and always carries its point by a process of blank obstructiveness. But each victory thus gained is of the nature of a defeat, narrowing and confining the soul still more within its self-imposed limits, deafening it to the interests of an outer world, and to the joys and sorrows of humanity at large. His sister was a tall, angular woman, with thin, compressed lips and a cold, grey eye, betokening a far more active and aggressive will. But probably no two people were ever more entirely in harmony, till Ronald sowed dissension between them. Even dissimilarities, in their case, became points of agreement. For instance, the uncle read much and forgot all that he read, while she read nothing and had consequently nothing to forget. Then again, they were united in their devotion to comfort, for which each required the other. Wider forms of attachment they ignored and dispensed with, as unprofitable for the furtherance of the main issue. Friends, servants, animals, who were found detrimental, simply disappeared without comment, as unobtrusively as did the obnoxious teachers in Madame Beck’s famous _pensionnat_ in the Rue Fossette. In the art of “nagging” our uncle was supreme, bearing out Sarah Grand’s theory that women are nowhere in this province, which has been reckoned peculiarly their own. Curling himself up gracefully in his favourite armchair, and lighting a cigar, he would prepare himself to enjoy it. Sometimes the attack would be sudden and wanting in delicacy. “Ronald, I wish you could manage to be down in time for dinner.” Ronald, be it observed, had been five minutes late, but yet five minutes prior to its announcement by the butler. “My tie was so infern—intolerably hard to fasten, sir. I must get a _Jemima_.” “A _Jemima_!” shouted the uncle—scandalised at the idea of Ronald contemplating the introduction of some rustic handmaid—“What on earth do you mean?” “A hand-made tie, sir.” (The pun is yours, old man, not mine. Besides, the uncle wouldn’t have seen it, even if he’d given me the chance.—R.) A mollified pause of ten minutes. The next time he would preface his thrust with a feint, to throw Ronald off his guard.