ashioned suit of white kerseymere and a
peaked cap. He was a withered old gentleman, with red-rimmed eyes, broad
cheek-bones, and a projecting chin. He had a very sharp nose, and
his close-cropped hair was of a harsh, sandy tone and texture. He was
altogether a rather ferret-like old man, but he had, nevertheless, a
certain air of dignity and breeding which forbade the least observant to
take him for anything but a gentleman. His clothes, otherwise spotless,
were disfigured by a trail of snuff which ran lightly along all
projecting wrinkles from his right knee to his right shoulder. This
trail was accentuated in the region of his right-hand waistcoat pocket,
where his lordship kept his snuff loose for convenience' sake. He was
over eighty, and his head nodded and shook involuntarily with the palsy
of old age, but his figure was still fairly upright, and seemed to
promise an activity unusual for his years. He rested one hand on the
rung of a ladder which leaned against the wall beside him, and glanced
up and down the road with an air of impatience. On the ground at his
feet lay a billhook and a hand-saw, and once or twice he stirred these
with his foot, or made a movement with his disengaged right hand as if
he were using one of them.

When he had stood there some ten minutes in growing impatience, a young
gentleman came sauntering down the drive smoking a cigar. Times change,
and nowadays a young man attired after his fashion would be laughable,
but for his day he looked all over like a lady-killer, from his
tasselled French cap to his pointed patent leathers. Behind him walked
a valet, carrying a brass-bound mahogany box, a clumsy easel, and a
camp-stool.

"Going painting again, Ferdinand?" said his lordship, in a tone of some
little scorn and irritation.

"Yes," said Ferdinand, rather idly, "I am going painting. Your man
hasn't arrived yet?" He cast a glance of lazy amusement at the ladder
and at the tools that lay at its feet.

"No," returned his lordship, irritably. "Worthless scoundrel. Ah! here
he comes. Go away. Go away. Go and paint. Go and paint."

The young gentleman lifted his cap and sauntered on, turning once or
twice to look at his lordship and a queer lop-sided figure shambling
rapidly towards him.

"Joseph Beaker," said the Earl of Barfield, shaking his hand at the
lop-sided man, "you are late again. I have been waiting ten minutes."

"What did I say yesterday?" asked Joseph Beaker. His face was