Cousin Charles, in the attempt to kiss his hand toward his flatterer, pulled his glasses off his nose by their cord. “Bromfield,” he said, “I don't see but this commits me against you.” And then, the ladies having withdrawn, the two men put on that business air with which our sex tries to atone to itself for having unbent to the lighter minds of the other; heaven knows what women do when the men with whom they have been talking go away. “If you should happen to stay in town,” continued the cousin treacherously, “I shall be very glad, for I don't know but I shall be here the greater part of the summer myself.” “I shall stay,” said the other, “but there won't be anything casual about it.” “What do you hear from Tom?” asked the cousin, feeling about on the mantel for a match. He was a full-bodied, handsome, amiable-looking old fellow, whose breath came in quick sighs with this light exertion. He had a blond complexion, and what was left of his hair, a sort of ethereal down on the top of his head, and some cherished fringes at the temples, was turning the yellowish grey that blond hair becomes. The other gentleman, stretched at ease in a deep chair, with one leg propped on a cricket, had the distinction of long forms, which the years had left in their youthful gracility; his snow-white moustache had been allowed to droop over the handsome mouth, whose teeth were beginning to go. “They're on the other side of the clock,” he said, referring to the matches. He added, with another glance at his relative, “Charles, you ought to bant. It's beginning to affect your wind.” “_Beginning!_ Your memory's going, Bromfield. But they say there's a new system that allows you to eat everything. I'm waiting for that. In the meantime, I've gone back to my baccy.” “They've cut mine off,” sighed the other. “Doesn't it affect your heart?” “Not a bit. But what do you do, now you can't smoke and your eyes have given out?” “I bore myself. I had a letter from Tom yesterday,” said the sufferer, returning to the question that his cousin's obesity had diverted him from. “He's coming on in the summer.” “Tom's a lucky fellow,” said the cousin. “I wish you had insisted on my taking some of that stock of his when you bought in.” “Yes, you made a great mistake,” said the other, with whimsical superiority. “You should have taken my advice. You would now be rolling in riches, as I am, with a much better figure for it.” The cousin smoked a while. “Do you know, I think Tom's about the best fellow I ever knew.” “He's a good boy,” said the other, with the accent of a father's pride and tenderness. “Going to bring his pretty chickens and their dam?” asked the cousin, parting his coat-skirts to the genial influence of the fire.