Gilbert Denison of Nunham Priors bore little likeness to him of Heron Dyke. He was a lean, finical old gentleman, a little younger than his cousin, wearing a brown wig and a long, buttoned-up, bottle-green coat that reached nearly to his heels. His whimsical but good-natured face was full of lines and puckers and creases, and he had an odd quaint way of screwing up his lips while waiting for an answer to a question that many a low comedian might have envied. Living much by himself, his establishment was a small one; his wife was dead, his son Frank chose to be often away from home, and the old man had no love of show or ostentation. He liked his gardens and hothouses to be well looked after, and everything around him to be cosy and comfortable, but beyond that he cared little. He kept one old-fashioned carriage in which he drove to and from the station on the occasions of his frequent journeys to town. An hour's ride by railway took him to Charing Cross, and after that it was but a short walk to one or another of the great auction-rooms where so large a portion of his leisure time was passed: for Mr. Denison was a great bibliophile and noted collector of curiosities. Nothing came amiss to him that was recommended by its rarity. From the skull of a Carib chief to an etching by Rembrandt, from an illuminated missal to a suppressed number of _La Lanterne_, or a bit of Roman pavement dug up in the City, his tastes were omnivorous enough for all. Nunham Priors itself was a very museum of curios. Some half-dozen or more of its rooms were entirely filled with a miscellaneous assortment of articles purchased by him from time to time at different auctions. Next to the acquisition of a bargain, Mr. Denison's greatest pleasure was in dusting his treasures and re-arranging them in different ways, or in displaying them and descanting on their rare qualities to some appreciative visitor. "And what better way than this could I have found of investing my surplus income?" he would sometimes say to his son. "Nearly all you see I picked up as bargains, and in twenty years they will sell for a hundred per cent, more than I gave for them. No fear here of broken banks or shares at zero." The breakfast this morning was the first meal father and son had partaken of together for some months. Mr. Frank had lingered unconscionably long away on his rovings, and the old gentleman was testy over it. "I do wish, Frank, you would leave off gallivanting about the world," said he, as he cracked an egg. "It is high time you settled down. Why don't you marry?" The words sent Frank into a laugh. There was not much likelihood of his marrying yet, he answered. "It's no laughing matter, sir, I can tell you." "Matrimony? No, I suppose not."