"He isn't easy to know. I know him very little, though he gave me this
living, and I have business with him, of course, occasionally. But this I
do know, the world is uncommonly full of people--don't you find it
so?--who say 'I go, Sir'--and don't go. Well, if Lord Buntingford says 'I
go, Sir'--he does go!"

"Does he often say it?" asked Mrs. Friend. And the man beside her noticed
the sudden gleam in her quiet little face, that rare or evanescent sprite
of laughter or satire that even the dwellers in Lancaster Gate had
occasionally noticed.

Mr. Alcott considered.

"Well, no," he said at last. "I admit he's difficult to catch. He likes
his own ways a great deal better than other people's. But if you do
catch him--if you do persuade him--well, then you can stake your bottom
dollar on him. At least, that's my experience. He's been awfully
generous about land here--put a lot in my hands to distribute long
before the war ended. Some of the neighbours about--other
landlords--were very sick--thought he'd given them away because of the
terms. They sent him a round robin. I doubt if he read it. In a thing
like that he's adamant. And he's adamant, too, when he's once taken a
real dislike to anybody. There's no moving him."

"You make me afraid!" said Mrs. Friend.

"Oh, no, you needn't be--" Mr. Alcott turned almost eagerly to look at
her. "I hope you won't be. He's the kindest of men. It's extraordinarily
kind of him--don't you think?"--the speaker smilingly lowered his