betokens a
robust constitution, and high animal spirits; the jaw was massive, and,
to a physiognomist, betokened firmness and strength of character; but
the lips, full and large, were those of a sensualist, and their restless
play, an habitual half smile, spoke of gaiety and humour, though when in
repose there was in them something furtive and sinister.

Maltravers looked at him in grave silence; but when Ferrers, concluding
his fourth letter before another man would have got through his
first page, threw down the pen, and looked full at Maltravers, with a
good-humoured but penetrating stare, there was something so whimsical in
the intruder's expression of face, and indeed in the whole scene, that
Maltravers bit his lip to restrain a smile, the first he had known for
weeks.

"I see you read, Maltravers," said Ferrers, carelessly turning over the
volumes on the table. "All very right: we should begin life with books;
they multiply the sources of employment; so does capital;--but capital
is of no use, unless we live on the interest,--books are waste paper,
unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought. Action,
Maltravers, action; that is the life for us. At our age we have passion,
fancy, sentiment; we can't read them away, or scribble them away;--we
must live upon them generously, but economically."

Maltravers was struck; the intruder was not the empty bore he had
chosen to fancy him. He roused himself languidly to reply. "Life, _Mr._
Ferrers--"

"Stop, _mon cher_, stop; don't call me Mister; we are to be friends; I
hate delaying that which _must be_, even by a superfluous dissyllable;
you are Maltravers, I am Ferrers. But you were going to talk about life.
Suppose we _live_ a little while, instead of talking about it? It wants
an hour to dinner; let us stroll into the grounds; I want to get an
appetite;--besides, I like nature when there are no Swiss mountains to
climb before one can arrive at a prospect. _Allons_!"

"Excuse--" again began Maltravers, half interested, half annoyed.

"I'll be shot if I do. Come."

Ferrers gave Maltravers his hat, wound his arm into that of his new
acquaintance, and they were on the broad terrace by the lake before
Ernest was aware of it.

How animated, how eccentric, how easy was Ferrers' talk (for talk it
was, rather than conversation, since he had the ball to himself); books,
and men, and things; he tossed them about and played with them like
shuttlecocks; and the