e was
wildly curious as to Mr. Nevill Tyson's antecedents.

An illuminating smile spread over Mr. Vance's face.

"I remember _him_ when he was a youngster. His father chucked the
business, and set up as a Baptist minister--a Particular Baptist."

"Indeed."

"An uncommonly clever fellow, Nevill Tyson; sharp as needles. But they
couldn't bring him up to the business, nor the ministry."

"Hardly good enough for him, I should imagine."

"Well--no. It wasn't a house with any standing in his time. He'd got
ideas in his head, too. Nothing but a 'Varsity education suited his
book."

"Ah, that always tells."

"His father was very much against it. He knew the young rascal. And just
when he was at the top of the tree, as you may say, sure enough he made
off--goodness knows where."

"Lived abroad a great deal, I believe." Sir Peter was anxious to throw a
vaguely charitable light on his neighbor's escapades.

"Got into some scrape about a woman, I fancy. Anyhow he left a pile of
debts behind him, and the old man ruined himself paying them."

Bristling with curiosity, Sir Peter endeavored to look detached. But at
this point Mr. Vance, remembering, perhaps, that Mr. Nevill Tyson was a
great man in his customer's county, and chilled a little by Sir Peter's
manner, checked the flow of his reminiscences. "He was a wild young
scamp--another two inches round the waist, sir--but I daresay he's
settled down steady enough by this time."

"No doubt he has," said Sir Peter, a little loftily. He was disgusted
with Vance.

But though Vance's conduct was disgusting, after all he had told him what
he was dying to know. The antecedents of old Tyson of Thorneytoft had
been wrapped in a dull mystery which nobody had ever taken the trouble to
penetrate. He had been in business--that much was known; and as he was
highly respectable, it was concluded that his business had been highly
respectable too. And then he had retired for ten years before he came to
Thorneytoft. Those ten years might be considered a season of purification
before entering on his solemn career as a country gentleman. Old Tyson
had cut himself adrift from his own origins. And as the years went on he
wrapped himself closer in his impenetrable garment of respectability; he
was only Mr. Tyson, the gentle cultivator of orchids, until, gradually
receding from view, he became a presence, a myth, a name. But when the
amazing Mr. Nevill Tyson dashed into his uncle's place, he