umque genus,--the familiar and harmless
inhabitants, who had been all expatriated and banished from their native
waves. Large poles twisted with fir branches, stuck thickly around the
lake, gave to the waters the becoming Helvetian gloom. And here, beside
three cows all bedecked with ribbons, stood the Swiss maidens destined
to startle the shades with the Ranz des Vaches. To the left, full upon
the sward, which it almost entirely covered, stretched the great Gothic
marquee, divided into two grand sections,--one for the dancing, one for
the dejeune.

The day was propitious,--not a cloud in the sky. The musicians
were already tuning their instruments; figures of waiters hired
of Gunter--trim and decorous, in black trousers and white
waistcoats--passed to and fro the space between the house and marquee.
Richard looked and looked; and as he looked he drew mechanically his
razor across the strop; and when he had looked his fill, he turned
reluctantly to the glass and shaved! All that blessed morning he had
been too busy, till then, to think of shaving.

There is a vast deal of character in the way that a man performs that
operation of shaving! You should have seen Richard Avenel shave! You
could have judged at once how he would shave his neighbours, when you
saw the celerity, the completeness with which he shaved himself,--a
forestroke and a backstroke, and tondenti barba cadebat. Cheek and
chin were as smooth as glass. You would have buttoned up your pockets
instinctively if you had seen him.

But the rest of Mr. Avenel's toilet was not completed with correspondent
despatch. On his bed, and on his chairs, and on his sofa, and on his
drawers, lay trousers and vests and cravats enough to distract the
choice of a Stoic. And first one pair of trousers was tried on, and
then another--and one waistcoat, and then a second, and then a third.
Gradually that chef-d'oeuvre of civilization--a man dressed--grew into
development and form; and, finally, Mr. Richard Avenel emerged into the
light of day. He had been lucky in his costume,--he felt it. It might
not suit every one in colour or cut, but it suited him.

And this was his garb. On such occasion, what epic poet would not
describe the robe and tunic of a hero?

His surtout--in modern phrase his frockcoat--was blue, a rich blue, a
blue that the royal brothers of George the Fourth were wont to favour.
And the surtout, single-breasted, was thrown open gallantly; and in the
second