"Ah, you're very kind; but I'm not so young as I was once, nor so rich as I was once--and--the Preacher says there's a time for all things. My time is very nearly past, and your time is coming, Mr. Carew. When do you establish yourself at Beechhurst?" "I am going back to London to-morrow to settle a few matters, and perhaps have a look round at Tattersall's, and I hope to be at Beechhurst in less than a fortnight." "I shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon you. Any wife?" "I am still in the enviable position my uncle enjoyed till his death." "A bachelor? Ah! that won't last long. It's all very well for a sun-dried old sailor to keep the fair sex at arm's length; but _you_ won't be able to do it, Mr. Carew. I give you till our next hunt-ball for a free man. You've no notion what complexions our Wiltshire women have--Devon can't beat 'em--or what a lot of pretty girls there are within a fifteen-mile drive of Matcham." "I look forward with a thrill of mingled rapture and apprehension to your next hunt-ball." "It'll be here before you know where you are. We have postponed it till the first of May. We shall kill our May fox on the thirtieth of April, and dance on his grave on the first." "I shall be there, my lord," said Allan, as Lord Hambury galloped off after his huntsman, who had just put the hounds into the covert. A whimper proclaimed that there was something on foot, five minutes afterwards, and the business of the day began--a goodish day, and a long one--two foxes run to earth, and one killed in the twilight. It was seven o'clock when Allan Carew arrived at the Duke's Head, hungry and thirsty, and not a little bored by having been obliged to explain to various people that he was no relation to Geoffrey Wornock. He had been too much bored at this enforced reiteration to make any inquiries about this double of his in the course of the day, or during the long homeward ride; but when he had taken the edge off his appetite in his cosy sitting-room at the Duke's Head, he began to question the waiter, as he trifled with the customary hotel tart, a hollow cavern of short crust roofing in half a bottle of overgrown gooseberries. "Do you know Mr. Wornock?" "Yes, sir; know him uncommonly well. Wonderful likeness between him and you, sir; thought you was him till I heard you speak." "Our voices are different, I am told." "Yes, sir, there's a difference. It ain't much--but it's just enough to make one doubtful like. Your voice, begging your pardon, sir, ain't as musical as his. Mr. Wornock's is a voice that would charm a bird off a tree, as the saying is. And then, after the first glance, one can see it ain't the same face," pursued the waiter, thoughtfully. "You've got such a look of him, you see, sir. That's what it is. One don't stop to think of the shape of a nose or a chin. It's the look that catches the eye. I suppose that's what people means by a speaking countenance, sir," added the waiter, garrulous, but not disrespectful.