It was not long, however, before he was once more in pursuit of the past. And now he was seated beside his handsome father in a chariot. They were both in mourning and he thought how well the black frogged riding-coat became his parent. As for himself, his black sattin breeches set his teeth on edge as he tried to scratch his knee. "Where are we going?" he was asking. "To your mother's brother, Sir George Repington of Repington Hall." "That's the man whose letters made her cry?" "The same, young Charles," said Mr. Lovely, ogling a dairymaid through his black-rimmed perspective, as the object of his glances shrank into a hedge, powdered with cow-parsley, and closed her eyes against the dust of their chariot. Then, without any warning, they were driving through a stately park, and as they turned a corner, Mr. Lovely senior exclaimed "Good G...! A cemetery indeed!" Charles looked up and saw a field full of small cypresses with rank grass growing between them. His father, who was looking rather pale, signed to the postboy to stop, and "Charles," said he, "do you go on up to the Hall, knock at the door and ask for your uncle, Sir George Repington. I'll wait for you here." As he set out in obedience to his father he heard him mutter. "This was the very place. I swear this was the place, and not an apple tree left." And then Charles diminutive enough in his black suit with miniature small-sword of cut steel, was asking two enormous footmen in canary-coloured velvet for Sir George Repington. They looked at him and laughed. "My uncle," said Charles solemnly. And they laughed again, but one of them murmured, 'This way,' and walked up a very wide and very slippery staircase, while Charles stumped up behind him. Half way, his sword belt came undone, and the sword clattered down upon the polished oak stairs with a noise that seemed to resound a dozen times through the quiet house. As he did not dare to keep the canary-coloured gentleman waiting, he picked up the toy weapon, clutched it tight in his left hand and entered a big dark room where a gentleman with iron grey close cropped hair sat reading in a chair with a very tall back, his wig balanced upon his toes. "What the d----l's this?" asked the grey gentleman jumping up. "Your honour's nephew," said the yellow gentleman. "Eh! what! leave us, sirrah," and "What do you want?" he said, turning to Charles. Charles could only watch the long furrow over his nose and wonder how deep it was, when the grey gentleman caught sight of the small sword. "Eh! what the d----l! give me that," and snatching the weapon, he broke it over his knee and flung it into the grate. "Please, sir, my father sent me to see you." "Who's he?" "Valentine Lovely, sir." "Good G----! Good G----!" muttered the old gentleman. "And Mrs. Lovely? Did she send you too?" "Mrs. Lovely's dead, sir." The grey gentleman looked across the room at a large painting of a girl in a white dress skipping with a rope of roses.