interest the wondrous livery of the two menials motionless behind the
glass of its portals, when a tandem equipage drew up in front of the
pile, and the menials darted out, in their white gloves, to prove that
they were alive and to justify their existence.

It was an amazingly complete turnout, and it well deserved all the
attention it attracted, which was considerable. The horses were
capricious, highly polished grays, perhaps a trifle undersized, but
with such an action as is not to be bought for less than twenty-five
guineas a hoof; the harness was silver-mounted; the dog-cart itself a
creation of beauty and nice poise; the groom a pink and priceless
perfection. But the crown and summit of the work was the driver--a
youngish gentleman who, from the gloss of his peculiarly shaped collar
to the buttons of his diminutive boots, exuded an atmosphere of
expense. His gloves, his scarf-pin, his watch-chain, his mustache, his
eye-glass, the crease in his nether garments, the cut of his
coat-tails, the curves of his hat--all uttered with one accord the
final word of fashion, left nothing else to be said. The correctness
of Keith Prowse's clerk was as naught to his correctness. He looked as
if he had emerged immaculate from the outfitter's boudoir, an
achievement the pride of Bond Street.

As this marvellous creature stood up and prepared to alight from the
vehicle, he chanced to turn his eye-glass in my direction. He scanned
me carelessly, glanced away, and scanned me again with a less detached
stare. And I, on my part, felt the awakening of a memory.

"That's my cousin Sullivan," I said to myself. "I wonder if he wants
to be friends."