“My dear fellow,” he cried, shaking Basil's hand again and again, “I have not seen you for years. Have you been--er--” he said, rather wildly, “have you been in the country?” “Not for all that time,” answered Basil, smiling. “I have long given up my official position, my dear Philip, and have been living in a deliberate retirement. I hope I do not come at an inopportune moment.” “An inopportune moment,” cried the ardent gentleman. “You come at the most opportune moment I could imagine. Do you know who is here?” “I do not,” answered Grant, with gravity. Even as he spoke a roar of laughter came from the inner room. “Basil,” said Lord Beaumont solemnly, “I have Wimpole here.” “And who is Wimpole?” “Basil,” cried the other, “you must have been in the country. You must have been in the antipodes. You must have been in the moon. Who is Wimpole? Who was Shakespeare?” “As to who Shakespeare was,” answered my friend placidly, “my views go no further than thinking that he was not Bacon. More probably he was Mary Queen of Scots. But as to who Wimpole is--” and his speech also was cloven with a roar of laughter from within. “Wimpole!” cried Lord Beaumont, in a sort of ecstasy. “Haven't you heard of the great modern wit? My dear fellow, he has turned conversation, I do not say into an art--for that, perhaps, it always was but into a great art, like the statuary of Michael Angelo--an art of masterpieces. His repartees, my good friend, startle one like a man shot dead. They are final; they are--” Again there came the hilarious roar from the room, and almost with the very noise of it, a big, panting apoplectic old gentleman came out of the inner house into the hall where we were standing. “Now, my dear chap,” began Lord Beaumont hastily. “I tell you, Beaumont, I won't stand it,” exploded the large old gentleman. “I won't be made game of by a twopenny literary adventurer like that. I won't be made a guy. I won't--” “Come, come,” said Beaumont feverishly. “Let me introduce you. This is Mr Justice Grant--that is, Mr Grant. Basil, I am sure you have heard of Sir Walter Cholmondeliegh.” “Who has not?” asked Grant, and bowed to the worthy old baronet, eyeing him with some curiosity. He was hot and heavy in his momentary anger, but even that could not conceal the noble though opulent outline of his face and body, the florid white hair, the Roman nose, the body stalwart though corpulent, the chin aristocratic though double. He was a magnificent courtly gentleman; so much of a gentleman that he could show an unquestionable weakness of anger without altogether losing dignity; so much of a gentleman that even his faux pas were well-bred. “I am distressed beyond expression, Beaumont,” he said gruffly, “to fail in respect to these gentlemen, and even more especially to fail in it in your house. But it is not you or they that are in any way concerned, but that flashy half-caste jackanapes--”