liked to do most of the talking himself.

Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the appearance of forty,
which was his patron's age. Spasmodically they entertained a
good deal at the Red House, and Mark's preference--call it
kindliness or vanity, as you please--was for guests who were not
in a position to repay his hospitality. Let us have a look at
them as they came down to that breakfast, of which Stevens, the
parlour-maid, has already given us a glimpse.

The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired,
grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey
flannel trousers, who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural
history articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the
side-table, decided carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it.
He had passed on to a sausage by the time of the next arrival.
This was Bill Beverly, a cheerful young man in white flannel
trousers and a blazer.

"Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"

"It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.

"Well, whatever it is."

The Major grunted.

"I make a point of being polite at breakfast," said Bill, helping
himself largely to porridge. "Most people are so rude. That's
why I asked you. But don't tell me if it's a secret. Coffee?"