laid himself out to gain their good opinion. He rarely troubled to make himself agreeable; he was not a marrying man (than which there can be no worse crime in a woman’s eyes), and led a solitary, vagrant existence; yet, in spite of such social disqualifications, women were his best friends, and defended him loyally from the clumsy sneers of his own sex. Assuredly he should have married, if only out of gratitude for such championship; but he preferred a single life, and in the main eschewed female society.
Withal he was not inclined to undervalue either his personal appearance or his mental capacity. No mean classical scholar, he seldom passed a day without dipping into the charming pages of Horace or Catullus. Of the two he preferred the Veronese, who with Heine and Poe formed his favourite trio of poets, from which names it can be seen that Sir Philip had a taste for the fantastic in literature. He was conversant with three or four modern languages, and was especially familiar with the noble tongue of Castille. A man who can read “Don Quixote” in the original is somewhat of a rarity in England. Those of Philip’s acquaintances who could induce him to talk literature and art formed an excellent opinion of his abilities. Moreover, he was unique in one respect. He had circumnavigated the globe, yet had refrained from writing a book of travel.
As to his personal appearance, it was as smart and spruce as that of his yacht. Only those who know how a crack yacht is cherished by her owner can thoroughly understand this comparison. In spite of his solitary existence, Philip was always careful of the outward man, and this attention to his toilet was a notable trait of his character. Yet he was by no means effeminate, foppish, or finical. To sum up, he was a well-dressed, well-bred, cultured Englishman—who had all the qualities—mental, personal, and physical—fitting him to shine with no mean lustre in society, yet he preferred to live the life of a nautical hermit—if such a thing be possible.
Walking constantly to and fro, he glanced every now and then at the clock, the large hand of which was close on seven. Given that all three guests were within a measurable distance of the rendezvous, he began to calculate, from what he knew of their idiosyncrasies, which one of them would be the first to arrive.
“I am certain it will be Peter,” decided Cassim, after due reflection; “neat, orderly, punctual Peter, who never missed a lesson, and never came late to class. Tim is careless! Jack is whimsical! If anyone arrives, it will be Dr. Peter Paul Grench. And,” he added, as the bell rang, “here he is.”
His prognostication proved to be correct, for in a few minutes the door of the study opened to admit a precise little gentleman, in whom Philip had no difficulty in recognising his quondam schoolfellow. It was a trifle larger Peter—it was Peter in evening dress, twirling a pince-nez—Peter with mutton-chop whiskers and a bald head; but it was undeniably Peter Paul Grench, of Bedford Grammar School.
“‘The child,’” quoth Philip, advancing to meet his guest, “‘is father to the man.’ It is just on seven, and you, Peter, keep your fifteen-year-old appointment to the minute. I am delighted to see you.”
“I am sure the feeling is reciprocal,” responded Dr. Grench, primly, as he grasped the baronet’s hand; “it is indeed a pleasure to meet an old schoolfellow after these many years.”
Peter spoke in a Johnsonian manner, but his words were genuine enough and under the influence of this natural emotion, for the moment he forgot his primness. After a time, however, habit asserted its influence over nature, and Grench resumed his buckram civilities, while Philip, also recovering himself, relapsed into his usual nonchalant manners.
“So you kept this appointment, after all,” said Cassim, as they settled themselves for a confidential conversation; “I thought it possible you might have forgotten about it.”
“By no means,” answered Grench, producing a piece of paper similar to that of Philip’s. “I have often looked at this, and always intended, unless prevented by disease or death, to meet my old schoolfellows as agreed. Here we are, my dear friend; but Tim and Jack?”
“May be at the other end of the world, for all I know,” responded the baronet, carelessly. “Special correspondents and engineers are the Wandering Jews of to-day. Still, as I came from the Guinea coast for this appointment, they will surely not grudge a lengthy journey for a similar purpose.”
“Tim is in London,” said Peter, unexpectedly.
“Ah!” remarked Philip, manifesting but little surprise, “you have seen him, then?”
“No! Since we parted at Bedford I have seen none of you; but I have heard of all three.”
“Nothing good of me, I am afraid,” said Cassim, with that amiable belief in his fellow-creatures which made them love him so.
“Nothing bad, at all events,” answered Peter, serenely. “You are constantly travelling; you are still a bachelor; you open your heart to no one, and judge the world as though you were not its denizen.”
“Which last remark is stolen from La Rochefoucauld. Yes! Your description is accurate if not original. However, let us not talk of Philip Cassim. I am terribly tired of him. What about Jack and Tim?”
“Of Jack I know nothing, save that he was last heard of in India. Tim, however, wrote to me the other day saying he intended to keep this appointment. Concerning his life, he volunteered no information.”
“So like Tim! His private correspondence was always unsatisfactory. I like his newspaper letters however; the descriptions are so bright and vivid—plenty of gunpowder and adventure. Certainly Tim makes an excellent war correspondent. I wonder if he still has that strong brogue.”
“Surely not. When he came to Bedford, he was fresh from Ireland; but now that he has been travelling so much, he must have lost his pronounced Irishisms.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Philip, with a smile, “Tim is Irish of the Irish. I believe he loves his brogue. You can’t educate the race nature out of a man. Believe me, my dear Peter, Tim will be as noisy and as warm-hearted as of yore. I am very fond of Tim.”
“Yet I should think Tim, such as you describe him, would be the last person to suit a fastidious individual such as yourself.”
“Come now, Peter, I am not quite so hypercritical as all that. Besides, Tim, with all his noise and brogue, is a thorough gentleman. It is your veneered person I object to. However, Tim may have changed. Meanwhile what about yourself?”
“Like Canning’s knife-grinder, I have no story to tell. When I left Bedford I went to Cambridge—afterwards came to London. Passed my examinations, walked the hospitals, took my degree, and hearing that a doctor was wanted down at Barnstaple, I went there. For some years I practised with more or less success. Then I retired to give——”
“Retired!” interrupted Philip, in surprise. “Have you made your fortune?”
“By no means. Country doctors never make fortunes. No! I inherit five hundred a year from my father, and as there is no necessity for me to physic people for a livelihood, I devote myself——”
“To sticking pins through unoffending butterflies!”
“Now, how did you guess that?” asked the little doctor, in mild surprise.
“Easily enough. You had a butterfly and beetle mania at school. If I remember rightly, we rolled you in nettles to cure you of entomology. Boys don’t relish scientific urchins. So you are still at it. But five hundred a year and beetles. Peter, you are not
