y into the depths of her big arm-chair. Somehow
she felt a better and a more important girl since Uncle Chris had
addressed her. Most people felt like that after encountering Jill's
Uncle Christopher. Uncle Chris had a manner. It was not precisely
condescending, and yet it was not the manner of an equal. He treated
you as an equal, true, but all the time you were conscious of the fact
that it was extraordinarily good of him to do so. Uncle Chris affected
the rank and file of his fellow-men much as a genial knight of the
Middle Ages would have affected a scurvy knave or varlet if he had
cast aside social distinctions for a while and hobnobbed with the
latter in a tavern. He never patronized, but the mere fact that he
abstained from patronizing seemed somehow impressive.

To this impressiveness his appearance contributed largely. He was a
fine, upstanding man, who looked less than his forty-nine years in
spite of an ominous thinning of the hair which he tended and brushed
so carefully. He had a firm chin, a mouth that smiled often and
pleasantly beneath the closely-clipped moustache, and very bright blue
eyes which met yours in a clear, frank, honest gaze. Though he had
served in his youth in India, he had none of the Anglo-Indian's
sun-scorched sallowness. His complexion was fresh and sanguine. He
looked as if he had just stepped out of a cold tub--a misleading
impression, for Uncle Chris detested cold water and always took his
morning bath as hot as he could get it.

It was his clothes, however, which, even more than his appearance,
fascinated the populace. There is only one tailor in London, as
distinguished from the ambitious mechanics who make coats and
trousers, and Uncle Chris was his best customer. Similarly, London is
full of young fellows trying to get along by the manufacture of
foot-wear, but there is only one boot-maker in the true meaning of the
word--the one who supplied Uncle Chris. And, as for hats, while it is
no doubt a fact that you can get at plenty of London shops some sort
of covering for your head which will keep it warm, the only
hatter--using the term in its deeper sense--is the man who enjoyed the
patronage of Major Christopher Selby. From foot to head, in short,
from furthest South to extremest North, Uncle Chris was perfect. He
was an ornament to his surroundings. The Metropolis looked better for
him. One seems to picture London as a mother with a horde of untidy
children, children with made