'Scratch wigs and snuff-colour. If she had not been next door to a Bess
of Bedlam and in a main tantrum, she would have seen that. But "Are you
Mr. Berkeley?" she says, all on fire like. And "Will you fight for a
woman?" And when they shrieked out, banged the door on them. But I tell
you she was a pretty piece as you'd wish to see. If she had asked me, I
would not have said no to her.' And he grinned.

The gentleman in the chariot opened a window. 'Where did she stop you,
my man?' he asked idly.

'Half a mile this side of Oxford, your worship,' the postboy answered,
knuckling his forehead. 'Seemed to me, sir, she was a play actress. She
had that sort of way with her.'

The gentleman nodded and closed the window. The night had so far set in
that they had brought out lights; as he sat back, one of these, hung in
the carriage, shone on his features and betrayed that he was smiling. In
this mood his face lost the air of affected refinement--which was then
the mode, and went perfectly with a wig and ruffles--and appeared in its
true cast, plain and strong, yet not uncomely. His features lacked the
insipid regularity which, where all shaved, passed for masculine beauty;
the nose ended largely, the cheek-bones were high, and the chin
projected. But from the risk and even the edge of ugliness it was saved
by a pair of grey eyes, keen, humorous, and kindly, and a smile that
showed the eyes at their best. Of late those eyes had been known to
express weariness and satiety; the man was tiring of the round of costly
follies and aimless amusements in which he passed his life. But at
twenty-six pepper is still hot in the mouth, and Sir George Soane
continued to drink, game, and fribble, though the first pungent flavour
of those delights had vanished, and the things themselves began to