ut the table, but without finding any to interest him. It
was long past twelve now, and he was beginning to feel drowsy and out of
temper. He wished he had remained in the smoking-room of his hotel, or
hunted up some old acquaintances at the Country Club.

Sir Lucius was a medium-sized, slightly portly gentleman of fifty-eight,
though he did not look his age, thanks to the correct life he led. He
had a military carriage, a rubicund face, a heavy mustache, keen,
twinkling eyes, and a head of iron-gray hair. He was a childless
widower, and Victor Nevill, the son of his dead sister Elizabeth, was
his nephew, and presumably his heir. He had had another sister--his
favorite one--but many years ago he had cast her out of his life. He
lived alone at his fine old place in Sussex, Priory Court, near to the
sea and the downs. When he was at home he found occupation in shooting
and fishing, riding, cultivating hot-house fruits, and breeding horses
and cattle. These things he did to perfection, but his knowledge of art
was not beyond criticism. He was particularly fond of old masters, but
he bought all sorts of pictures, and had a gallery full of them. He made
bad bargains sometimes, and was imposed upon by unscrupulous dealers.
That, however, was nobody's business, as long as he himself was
satisfied.

He cared nothing for London or for society, and seldom came up to town;
but he liked to travel, and a portion of each year he invariably spent
on the Continent or in more remote places. He smoked Indian cheroots
from choice--he had once filled a civil position in Bombay for eighteen
months--and his favorite wine was port. He was generous and
kind-hearted, and believed that every young man must sow his crop of
wild oats, and that he would be the better for it. But there was another
and a deeper side to his character. In his sense of honor he was a
counterpart of Colonel Newcome, and he had a vast amount of family
pride; a sin against that he could neither forget nor forgive, and he
was relentless to the offender.

It was twenty minutes to one when Victor Nevill mounted the stairs and
opened his door, surprised to see that the gas was lighted in his rooms.
If he was unpleasantly startled by the sight of his visitor, he masked
his feelings successfully.

"My dear uncle," he cried, "I am delighted to see you!"

"You dog!" exclaimed Sir Lucius, with a beaming countenance. "You
night-bird! Do you know that I have been here since ten