cut of his
clothes suggest the soldier. But he is one of the great engineers; his
father and grandfather were engineers. You observe the red ribbon in his
lapel; France honors him.

Sir Peter's big house is in Armytage Street, near the park. You may
remember the house by its walled garden and the imposing wrought-iron
grille through which one has access to the flagged walk, the wide steps,
and the great doorway.

In his house, the library defines his chief interest in life. The
shelves are filled with somber sets of the "Transactions" and
"Proceedings" of several learned societies. Sir Peter is himself a
Fellow of these societies Mr. Rowlandson, his bookseller, has a standing
advertisement in "The Athenaeum" for certain missing volumes. One in
particular, the "Proceedings of the British Engineering Society for the
year 1848," he would tell you, was the very devil to find; it seems
there was a fire at the printer's. Sir Peter's monograph on the
"Egyptian Pyramids Considered in their Relation to Modern Engineering"
was dedicated to this society. He presided over its grave deliberations
for several years. "With dignity and impartiality," said his successor,
when Sir Peter surrendered the gavel.

He serves on boards of directors. His name is seen on subscription lists
headed by the Right People. Late afternoon should find him at the
Carlton Club.

Many years ago, Sir Peter brought together a number of fine pictures.
They hang in the drawing-room, but the collection is not a notable one
in these days. Each year, however, the Oglebay Prize speeds some
talented English lad to Paris. But that endowment was his brother
Robert's suggestion. Sir Peter's calls at the Christie Galleries ceased
when Robert married beautiful Valentine Germain, the actress. Perhaps
half of the cruel things Sir Peter said of her were true. But the
quarrel was irreparable; the brothers never met afterward.

Robert Oglebay was a painter of distinction, if not of genius. His few
finished pictures enriched the world. His impulses were noble, but they
were impulses only; the will to complete the undertaken task was
lacking. For patient work he substituted high talk of Art in the studios
of his friends. The gay little suppers in their own rooms were famous;
nine at table, mostly men, entranced by Valentine's beauty and her wit.
Charming were their afternoons among the curio shops, and their return,
laden with loot too precious to wait over night for del