"Mr. Heigham's dog killed Snarleyow this afternoon," said George, in a
savage voice.

At this intelligence, Sir John's face became wreathed in smiles.

"I am deeply delighted--I mean grieved--to hear it. Poor Snarleyow! he
was a charming dog; and to think that such a fate should have
overtaken him, when it was only last week that he did the same kind
office for Anne's spaniel. Poor Snarleyow! you should really have him
stuffed. But, my dear Caresfoot, you have not yet introduced me to the
hero of the evening, Mr. Heigham. Mr. Heigham, I am delighted to make
your acquaintance," and he shook hands with Arthur with gentle
enthusiasm, as though he were the last scion of a race that he had
known and loved for generations.

Presently dinner was announced, and the three sat down at a small
round table in the centre of the big dining-room, on which was placed
a shaded lamp. It was not a cheerful dinner. George, having said
grace, relapsed into moody silence, eating and drinking with gusto but
in moderation, and savouring every sup of wine and morsel of food as
though he regretted its departure. He was not free from gluttony, but
he was a judicious glutton. For his part, Arthur found a certain
fascination in watching his guardian's red head as he bobbed up and
down opposite to him, and speculating on the thickness of each
individual hair that contributed to give it such a spiky effect. What
had his mother been like, he wondered, that she had started him in
life with such an entirely detestable countenance? Meanwhile he was
replying in monosyllables to Sir John's gentle babblings, till at last
even that gentleman's flow of conversation ran dry, and Arthur was
left free to contemplate the head in solemn silence. As soon as the