Strange and grotesque as in every respect he looked, the venerable character of old age secured him a respectful, almost a cordial, reception; and as Lady Eleanor advanced to him, there was that urbanity and courtesy in her manner which are so nearly allied to the expression of actual esteem. It was true, there was little in the old man's nature to elicit such feelings towards him; he was a grasping miser, covetousness and money-getting filled up his heart, and every avenue leading to it. The passion for gain had alone given the interest to his life, and developed into activity any intelligence he possessed. While his son valued wealth as the only stepping-stone to a position of eminence and rank, old Hickman loved riches for their own sake. The bank was, in his estimation, the fountain of all honor, and a strong credit there better than all the reputation the world could confer. These were harsh traits. But then he was old; long years of infirmity were bringing him each hour closer to the time when the passion of his existence must be abandoned; and a feeling of pity was excited at the sight of that withered, careworn face, to which the insensate cravings of avarice lent an unnatural look of shrewdness and intelligence. “What a cold morning for your drive, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, kindly. “Captain Forester, may I ask you to stir the fire? Mr. Hickman--Captain Forester.” “Ah, Miss Helen, beautiful as ever!” exclaimed the old man, as, with a look of real admiration, he gazed on Miss Darcy. “I don't know how it is, Lady Eleanor, but the young ladies never dressed so becomingly formerly. Captain Forester, your humble servant; I'm glad to see you about again,--indeed, I did n't think it very likely once that you'd ever leave the library on your own feet; Mac-Donough 's a dead shot they tell me--ay, ay!” “I hope your friends at 'The Grove' are well, sir?” said Lady Eleanor, desirous of interrupting a topic she saw to be particularly distressing to Forester. “No, indeed, my Lady; my son Bob--Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, I mean--God forgive me, I'm sure they take trouble enough to teach me that name--he's got a kind of a water-brash, what we call a pyrosis. I tell him it's the French dishes he eats for dinner, things he never was brought op to, concoctions of lemon juice, and cloves, and saffron, and garlic, in meat roasted--no, but stewed into chips.” “You prefer our national cookery, Mr. Hickman?” “Yes, my Lady, with the gravy in it; the crag-end,--if your Ladyship knows what's the crag-end of a--” “Indeed, Mr. Hickman,” said Lady Eleanor, smiling, “I'm deplorably ignorant about everything that concerns the household. Helen affects to be very deep in these matters; but I suspect it is only a superficial knowledge, got up to amuse the Knight.” “I beg, Mamma, you will not infer any such reproach on my skill in _menage_. Papa called my _omelette à la curé_ perfect.”