He sat down, ran his fingers through his grey-brown hair, and looking into a mirror, adjusted the bow of his tie, and flipped the flying ends. The kind of man was new to Gaston: self-indulgent, intelligent, heavily nourished, nonchalant, with a coarse kind of handsomeness. He felt that here was a man of the world, equipped mentally cap-a-pie, as keen as cruel. Reading that in the light of the past, he was ready. “And yet his rashness will hurt you longer than your haste hurt him.” The artist took the hint bravely. “That you will have the estate, and I the title, eh? Well, that looks likely just now; but I doubt it all the same. You’ll mess the thing one way or another.” He turned from the contemplation of himself, and eyed Gaston lazily. Suddenly he started. “Begad,” he said, “where did you get it?” He rose. Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward. “Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff.” The other measured his words insolently: “But the Pocahontas soils the stream--that’s plain.” A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, feeling his heart. “Good God,” he said, “I didn’t think I hit so hard!” He felt the pulse, looked at the livid face, then caught open the waistcoat and put his ear to the chest. He did it all coolly, though swiftly--he was’ born for action and incident. And during that moment of suspense he thought of a hundred things, chiefly that, for the sake of the family--the family!--he must not go to trial. There were easier ways. But presently he found that the heart beat. “Good! good!” he said, undid the collar, got some water, and rang a bell. Falby came. Gaston ordered some brandy, and asked for Sir William. After the brandy had been given, consciousness returned. Gaston lifted him up. He presently swallowed more brandy, and while yet his head was at Gaston’s shoulder, said: “You are a hard hitter. But you’ve certainly lost the game now.” Here he made an effort, and with Gaston’s assistance got to his feet. At that moment Falby entered to say that Sir William was not in the house. With a wave of the hand Gaston dismissed him. Deathly pale, his uncle lifted his eyebrows at the graceful gesture. “You do it fairly, nephew,” he said ironically yet faintly,--“fairly in such little things; but a gentleman, your uncle, your elder, with fists--that smacks of low company!” Gaston made a frank reply as he smothered his pride “I am sorry for the blow, sir; but was the fault all mine?” “The fault? Is that the question? Faults and manners are not the same. At bottom you lack in manners; and that will ruin you at last.” “You slighted my mother!” “Oh, no! and if I had, you should not have seen it.” “I am not used to swallow insults. It is your way, sir. I know your dealings with my father.” “A little more brandy, please. But your father had manners, after all. You are as rash as he; and in essential matters clownish--which he was not.”