with the elegance of France, that in England would be
accounted foppishness. He wore a suit of dark blue cloth,
with white satin linings that were revealed when he moved; it
was heavily laced with gold, and a ramiform pattern broidered
in gold thread ran up the sides of his silk stockings of a
paler blue. Jewels gleamed in the Brussels at his throat, and
there were diamond buckles on his lacquered, red-heeled shoes.

Sir Richard considered him with anxiety and some chagrin.
"Justin!" he cried, a world of reproach in his voice. "What
can you need to ponder?"

"Whatever it may be," said Mr. Caryll, "it will be better that
I ponder it now than after I have pledged myself."

"But what is it? What?" demanded the baronet.

"I am marvelling, for one thing, that you should have waited
thirty years."

Sir Richard's fingers stirred the papers before him in an
idle, absent manner. Into his brooding eyes there leapt the
glitter to be seen in the eyes of the fevered of body or of
mind.

"Vengeance," said he slowly, "is a dish best relished when
'tis eaten cold." He paused an instant; then continued: "I
might have crossed to England at the time, and slain him.
Should that have satisfied me? What is death but peace and
rest?"