A man of medium height, and of moderate proportions, with a round, obstinate-looking head, dark complexion, brown eyes, a mouth with a protruding under-lip, and an all-pervading expression of shrewdness, and strong, powerful common-sense. A prejudiced, one-sided man, one would suppose, but a man who required a considerable mental space in which to display his onesidedness and prejudice—a man with great faults, and great virtues, possibly; with a bull-dog expression, betokening tenacity of mind—what this man once grasped, he would not easily let loose again. Jerome felt the last fact strongly, if he did not understand, as indeed he could not possibly do, the other characteristics. There was nothing handsome about Mr. Bolton; very little to be praised in his manner, no grace in his gestures; but there was a certain rough dignity about him, which was even imposing. He was a commanding spirit, if not an enlightened one. ‘Mr. Wellfield, I think?’ he said, fixing his deep-set, dark eyes upon Wellfield’s face, but not betraying, by either look or expression, that he was particularly struck in any way by his visitor. ‘Yes,’ said Jerome, bowing; ‘I presume you are Mr. Bolton?’ ‘The same. Will you not be seated?’ Jerome had been standing in one of the windows. At Mr. Bolton’s suggestion he took a chair, and a feeling curiously akin to mortification began to steal over him. Mr. Bolton was so very evidently the master-spirit here. Wellfield felt himself so entirely reduced to the level of a stranger—a mere casual caller, in his old home, that at first he could hardly speak. How was he to introduce himself? How account for his presence there, for he had come in his usual half-dreaming manner: with no set aim or purpose—no clear and tangible excuse; driven only by a longing to see the place, and by a half-acknowledged feeling of defiant unwillingness to be deterred by this stranger from stepping into the house which he persistently looked upon as ‘his by right.’ It has been said that when the elder Wellfield sent his son into the world, he had not overburdened him with moral maxims for his guidance. Jerome had been left to decide upon his own ethical code—a plan which has its snares and pitfalls as well as its advantages. Mr. Bolton’s calm presence of mind, and his evident ease and pleasure in his surroundings, caused a strange pang to Wellfield, and roused a feeling of resentment at once unreasonable and ridiculous. And yet, he felt, he must be courtesy itself, or all his own feelings and ideas as to what was his due would not prevent the usurper from somewhat unceremoniously casting him forth. ‘You may think this a strange intrusion on my part,’ he began, on the spur of the moment. ‘Indeed, I begin to think myself that it is.’ ‘As to that, I can say nothing, Mr. Wellfield, until I hear your errand. In the meantime, I do not think it strange at all that you should call at the Abbey if you were in this neighbourhood.’