Dudley Ruthyn's cool and resolute denial of ever having seen me or the places I had named, and the inflexible serenity of his countenance while doing so, did very much shake my confidence in my own identification of him. I could not be _quite_ certain that the person I had seen at Church Scarsdale was the very same whom I afterwards saw at Knowl. And now, in this particular instance, after the lapse of a still longer period, could I be perfectly certain that my memory, deceived by some accidental points of resemblance, had not duped me, and wronged my cousin, Dudley Ruthyn? I suppose my uncle had expected from me some signs of acquiesence in his splendid estimate of his cub, and was nettled at my silence. After a short interval he said-- 'I've seen something of the world in my day, and I can say without a misgiving of partiality, that Dudley is the material of a perfect English gentleman. I am not blind, of course--the training must be supplied; a year or two of good models, active self-criticism, and good society. I simply say that the _material_ is there.' Here was another interval of silence. 'And now tell me, child, what these recollections of Church--Church--_what_?' 'Church Scarsdale,' I replied. 'Yes, thank you--Church Scarsdale and Knowl--are?' So I related my stories as well as I could. 'Well, dear Maud, the adventure of Church Scarsdale is hardly so terrific as I expected,' said Uncle Silas with a cold little laugh; 'and I don't see, if he had really been the hero of it, why he should shrink from avowing it. I know I should not. And I really can't say that your pic-nic party in the grounds of Knowl has frightened me much more. A lady waiting in the carriage, and two or three tipsy young men. Her presence seems to me a guarantee that no mischief was meant; but champagne is the soul of frolic, and a row with the gamekeepers a natural consequence. It happened to me once--forty years ago, when I was a wild young buck--one of the worst rows I ever was in.' And Uncle Silas poured some eau-de-cologne over the corner of his handkerchief, and touched his temples with it. 'If my boy had been there, I do assure you--and I know him--he would say so at once. I fancy he would rather _boast_ of it. I never knew him utter an untruth. When you know him a little you'll say so.' With these words Uncle Silas leaned back exhausted, and languidly poured some of his favourite eau-de-cologne over the palms of his hands, nodded a farewell, and, in a whisper, wished me good-night. 'Dudley's come,' whispered Milly, taking me under the arm as I entered the lobby. 'But I don't care: he never gives me nout; and he gets money from Governor, as much as he likes, and I never a sixpence. It's a shame!' So there was no great love between the only son and only daughter of the younger line of the Ruthyns.