‘Which means in plain English that you only tolerate him?’ said John, carelessly. ‘Well, he is harmless, and sometimes amusing. Let him come.’ Edward came, and seemed at home and happy in the small family circle. He lounged beside the fire in the snug book-room, and joined in the easy familiar talk, when the autumn dusk was deepening, and Laura made tea at her pretty little table, with her husband by her side, while Celia, who had a fancy for eccentric positions and attitudes, sat on the hearthrug. One November evening, about a month after the dinner party, the conversation happened to light upon the county magnates who had adorned that banquet. ‘Did anybody ever see such a funny little figure as Lady Barker, surmounted by that wig!’ cried Celia. ‘I really think her dressmaker must be very clever to make any kind of gown that will hold together upon her. I don’t complain of her being fat. A woman may weigh sixteen stone and carry herself like a duchess. But Lady Barker is such an undecided figure. There’s no consistency in her. When she sinks on a sofa one expects to see her collapse, like a mould of jelly that hasn’t cooled properly. Oh, Edward, you should see Mr. Treverton’s portrait of her--the most delicious caricature.’ ‘Caricature!’ echoed Edward. ‘Why, that is another new talent. If Treverton goes on in this way we shall have to call him the admirable Crichton. It was only last week that I found out he could paint; and now you say he is a caricaturist. What next?’ ‘I believe you have come to the end of my small stock of accomplishments,’ said John Treverton, laughing. ‘I used once to amuse myself by an attempt to illustrate the absurdities of human nature in pen and ink. It pleased my brother officers, and helped to keep us alive sometimes in the dulness of country quarters.’ ‘Talking of caricature, by the way,’ said Edward, lazily, as he slowly stirred his cup of tea, ‘did you ever see “Folly as it Flies?”’ ‘The comic newspaper? Yes, often.’ ‘Ah, then you must have noticed the things done by that fellow Chicot--the man who murdered his wife. They were extraordinarily clever--out and away the best things I have ever seen since the days of Gavarni; rather too French, perhaps, but remarkably good.’ ‘It was natural the style should be French, since the man was French.’ ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Edward, ‘he was as English as you or I.’ Celia had risen from the floor and lighted a pair of candles on Laura’s open davenport, near which Edward was sitting. She selected a sheet of paper from a heap of loose sheets lying there and showed it to her brother, candle in hand. ‘Isn’t that too lovely?’ she asked. Edward examined the sketch with a critical air. ‘I don’t want you to suppose I’m trying to flatter you,’ he said at last, ‘but, upon my word, this little sketch is as good as anything of Chicot’s, and very much in his style.’