'Yes; I have seen his monument there,' shouted Stephen. 'But
there is no connection between his family and mine: there cannot
be.'

'There is none, possibly, to your knowledge. But look at this, my
dear sir,' said the vicar, striking his fist upon the bedpost for
emphasis. 'Here are you, Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith, living in
London, but springing from Caxbury. Here in this book is a
genealogical tree of the Stephen Fitzmaurice Smiths of Caxbury
Manor. You may be only a family of professional men now--I am not
inquisitive: I don't ask questions of that kind; it is not in me
to do so--but it is as plain as the nose in your face that there's
your origin! And, Mr. Smith, I congratulate you upon your blood;
blue blood, sir; and, upon my life, a very desirable colour, as
the world goes.'

'I wish you could congratulate me upon some more tangible
quality,' said the younger man, sadly no less than modestly.

'Nonsense! that will come with time. You are young: all your life
is before you. Now look--see how far back in the mists of
antiquity my own family of Swancourt have a root. Here, you see,'
he continued, turning to the page, 'is Geoffrey, the one among my
ancestors who lost a barony because he would cut his joke. Ah,
it's the sort of us! But the story is too long to tell now. Ay,
I'm a poor man--a poor gentleman, in fact: those I would be
friends with, won't be friends with me; those who are willing to
be friends with me, I am above being friends with. Beyond dining
with a neighbouring incumbent or two. and an occasional chat--
sometimes dinner--with Lord Luxellian, a connection of mine, I am