As we rose from table one of the guests spoke to me of a visit that he had recently paid to the part of Buckinghamshire which I come from. “I was shown a remarkably picturesque old house on the heath,” he said. “They told me it had been inhabited for centuries by the family of the Goldenhearts. Are you in any way related to them?” I answered that I was very nearly related, having been born in the house--and there, as I suppose, the matter ended. Being the youngest man of the party, I waited, of course, until the rest of the gentlemen had passed out to the smoking-room. Mr. Farnaby and I were left together. To my astonishment, he put his arm cordially into mine, and led me out of the dining-room with the genial familiarity of an old friend! “I’ll give you such a cigar,” he said, “as you can’t buy for money in all London. You have enjoyed yourself, I hope? Now we know what wine you like, you won’t have to ask the butler for it next time. Drop in any day, and take pot-luck with us.” He came to a standstill in the hall; his brassy rasping voice assumed a new tone--a sort of parody of respect. “Have you been to your family place,” he asked, “since your return to England?” He had evidently heard the few words exchanged between his friend and myself. It seemed odd that he should take any interest in a place belonging to people who were strangers to him. However, his question was easily answered. I had only to inform him that my father had sold the house when he left England. “Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that!” he said. “Those old family places ought to be kept up. The greatness of England, sir, strikes its roots in the old families of England. They may be rich, or they may be poor--that don’t matter. An old family _is_ an old family; it’s sad to see their hearths and homes sold to wealthy manufacturers who don’t know who their own grandfathers were. Would you allow me to ask what is the family motto of the Goldenhearts?” Shall I own the truth? The bottles circulated freely at Mr. Farnaby’s table--I began to wonder whether he was quite sober. I said I was sorry to disappoint him, but I really did not know what my family motto was. He was unaffectedly shocked. “I think I saw a ring on your finger,” he said, as soon as he recovered himself. He lifted my left hand in his own cold-fishy paw. The one ring I wear is of plain gold; it belonged to my father and it has his initials inscribed on the signet. “Good gracious, you haven’t got your coat-of-arms on your seal!” cried Mr. Farnaby. “My dear sir, I am old enough to be your father, and I must take the freedom of remonstrating with you. Your coat-of-arms and your motto are no doubt at the Heralds’ Office--why don’t you apply for them? Shall I go there for you? I will do it with pleasure. You shouldn’t be careless about these things--you shouldn’t indeed.”