I

A BLIGHTED BEING


The Honorable Percival Hascombe came aboard the Pacific liner about
to sail from San Francisco, preceded by a fur coat, a gun-case, two
pigskin bags, a hat-box, and a valet. He was tall and slender, and
moved with an air of fastidious distinction. He wore a small mustache,
a monocle, and an expression of unutterable ennui. His costume consisted
of a smart tweed traveling-suit, with cap to match, white spats, and
a pair of binoculars swung across his shoulders. In his eyes was the
look, carefully maintained, of one who has sounded the depths of human
tragedy.

Since his advent into the world twenty-eight years before, he had
been made to feel but one responsibility. His elder brother, having
persistently refused to provide himself with a wife and heir, the duty
of perpetuating the family name fell upon him, Percival Hascombe, second
son of the late Earl of Westenhanger, of Hascombe Hall, fifth in descent
from the great Westenhanger whose marble effigy adorns the dullest and
most respectable cathedral in southern England.

From the time Percival had been able to cast a discriminating eye, his
adoring family had presented the feminine flowers of the country-side
for his inspection. One after another they had met with his grave
consideration and subsequent disapprobation. Fears had begun to be
entertained that he would follow in the solitary footsteps of his