as not without a
certain air of nobility. His brown mustache did not altogether hide the
half-scornful expression of his mouth.

"How is everybody?" asked Macaulay Carvel of his father. "We shall have
a most jolly Christmas, all together."

"Well, Mr. Griggs," said Patoff to me, "I did not expect, when we parted
in Persia, that we should meet again in my uncle's house, did you? You
will hardly believe that this is my first visit to England, and to my
relations here."

"You will certainly not be taken for a foreigner here," I said,
laughing.

"Oh, of course not. You see my mother is English, so that I speak the
language. The difficulty for me will lie in learning the customs. The
English have so many peculiar habits. Is Professor Cutter at the house?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"Very well. He has been my mother's physician for some time."

"Indeed--I was not aware that he practiced as a physician." I was
surprised by the news, and a suspicion crossed my mind that the lady at
Weissenstein might have been Patoff's mother. Instantly the meaning of
the professor's warning flashed upon me,--I was not to mention that
affair in the Black Forest to Carvel. Of course not. Carvel was the
brother-in-law of the lady in question. However, I kept my own counsel
as we drove rapidly homewards. The sun had risen higher in the cloudless
sky, and the frozen ground was beginning to thaw, so that now and then
the mud splashed high from under the horses' hoofs. The vehicle in which
we drove was a mail phaeton, and Macaulay sat in front by his father's
side, while Patoff and I sat behind. We chatted pleasantly along the
road, and in half an hour were deposited at Carvel Place, where the
ladies came out to meet us, and the new cousin was introduced to every
one. He seemed to make himself at home very easily, and I think the
first impression he produced was favorable. Mrs. Carvel held his hand
for several seconds, and looked up into his cold blue eyes as though
searching for some resemblance to his mother, and he met her gentle look
frankly enough. Chrysophrasia eyed him and eyed him again, trying to
discover in him the attributes she had bestowed upon him in her
imagination; he was certainly a bold-looking fellow, and she was not
altogether disappointed. She allowed her hand to linger in his, and her
sentimental eyes turned upwards towards him with a look that was
intended to express profound sympathy. As for Paul, he looked at his
aunt Ch