an come up unobserved, and be taken in
without bustle or scandal. Barnes Newcome never missed going to church,
or dressing for dinner. He never kept a tradesman waiting for his money.
He never drank too much, except when other fellows did, and in good
company. He never was late for business, or huddled over his toilet,
however brief had been his sleep, or severe his headache. In a word,
he was as scrupulously whited as any sepulchre in the whole bills of
mortality.

Whilst young Barnes and his uncle were thus holding parley, a slim
gentleman of bland aspect, with a roomy forehead, or what his female
admirers called "a noble brow," and a neat white neckcloth tied with
clerical skill, was surveying Colonel Newcome through his shining
spectacles, and waiting for an opportunity to address him. The Colonel
remarked the eagerness with which the gentleman in black regarded him,
and asked Mr. Barnes who was the padre? Mr. Barnes turned his eyeglass
towards the spectacles, and said "he didn't know any more than the dead;
he didn't know two people in the room." The spectacles nevertheless made
the eyeglass a bow, of which the latter took no sort of cognisance. The
spectacles advanced; Mr. Newcome fell back with a peevish exclamation of
"Confound the fellow, what is he coming to speak to me for?" He did not
choose to be addressed by all sorts of persons in all houses.

But he of the spectacles, with an expression of delight in his pale
blue eyes, and smiles dimpling his countenance, pressed onwards with
outstretched hands, and it was towards the Colonel he turned these
smiles and friendly salutations. "Did I hear aright, sir, from Mrs.
Miles," he said, "and have I the honour of speaking to Colonel Newcome?"

"The same, sir," says the Colonel; at which the other, tearing off a
glove of lavender-coloured kid, uttered the words, "Charles Honeyman,"
and seized the hand of his brother-in-law. "My poor sister's husband,"
he continued; "my own benefactor; Clive's father. How strange are these
meetings in the mighty world! How I rejoice to see you, and know you!"

"You are Charles, are you?" cries the other. "I am very glad, indeed,
to shake you by the hand, Honeyman. Clive and I should have beat up your
quarters to-day, but we were busy until dinnertime. You put me in mind
of poor Emma, Charles," he added, sadly. Emma had not been a good wife
to him; a flighty silly little woman, who had caused him when alive many
a night of pain and