Steven would, he said. He folded the money together and crammed it into his tattered old pocket-book; he handled it a little eagerly, never having had much to handle. "We'd better start out to see them, the Pallinders, you know--right away, hadn't we?" he said, glancing at the clock. Gwynne looked at him with a sinking heart. Of course he was not ashamed of his kin. What! Ashamed of Cousin Steven! Gwynne would have knocked down the man who hinted it. Nevertheless, it must be allowed that Cousin Steven was more lax in matters relating to his personal appearance even than became one of Nature's gentlemen. He did not shave; he chewed tobacco; his boots manifested some acquaintance with Jake Bennett's unpaid-for wares. We all know that these things really do not count; a man's a man for a' that. It would be a shoddy soul that would condemn him for not blacking his boots, or cavil at the fashion of his coat. Still, we are conscious of a curious confusion within us on the point; we muddle the clear stainless water of our theories with the cloudy dye of our conventions; and to most of us, the quality of gentleman seems somehow inextricably associated with clean linen. Gwynne was no snob, but---- "Suppose we stop in to see Doctor Vardaman first and ask him to lend you a collar and tie--you know that kind of high black stock he wears?" he suggested weakly. "And then you--you might wash your hands, you know, and, and--clean your nails. I should think your hands would be cold this weather, Cousin Steven; don't you want to buy a pair of gloves?" "Gloves?" said Steven contemptuously. "You're too delicate, Gwynne. You've got all effeminated, living the way you do. Gloves! D'ye suppose Adam, the great father of mankind, wore gloves? You want to get out and live next to grand old Nature, and old Mother Earth. Those Pallinders are kind of dressy people, hey? Well, I don't care how dressy they are; they can wear all the gloves they damn please. I'll let you know, sir, that a Gwynne in his undershirt would be enough too good for any Pallinder that ever lived--yes, or anybody else either!" A mottled flush appeared on his old face; he raised his voice; he made wild hasty gestures, thumping with his cane. "You want me to spend money on gloves--drivelling ostentation! Gold's the curse of this country, and you want me to----" Gwynne was a little alarmed at these signs of excitement. "All right, Cousin Steven, never mind," he said soothingly. "I--I just wanted you to be comfortable, you know. You'd just as lief go and see Doctor Vardaman, wouldn't you?"