CHAPTER III


Perhaps there was never a moment in the lives of these two men when
their utter and radical dissimilarity, physically as well as in the
larger ways, was more strikingly and absolutely manifest. Like a
great sea animal, huge, black-bearded, bronzed, magnificent, but
uncouth, Andrew de la Borne, in the oilskins and overalls of a
village fisherman, stood in the great bare hall in front of the open
fireplace, reckless of his drippings, at first only mildly amused by
the half cynical, half angry survey of the very elegant young man
who had just descended the splendid oak staircase, with its finely
carved balustrade, black and worm-eaten, Cecil de la Borne stared at
his brother with the angry disgust of one whose sense of all that is
holiest stands outraged. Slim, of graceful though somewhat
undersized figure, he was conscious of having attained perfection in
matters which he reckoned of no small importance. His grey tweed
suit fitted him like a glove, his tie was a perfect blend between
the colour of his eyes and his clothes, his shoes were of immaculate
shape and polish, his socks had been selected with care in the Rue
de la Paix. His hair was brushed until it shone with the proper
amount of polish, his nails were perfectly manicured, even his
cigarette came from the dealer whose wares were the caprice of the
moment. That his complexion was pallid and that underneath his eyes
were faint blue lines, which were certainly not the hall-marks of
robust health, disturbed him not at all. These things were correct.
Health was by no means a desideratum in the set to which he was
striving to belong. He looked through his eyeglass at his brother
and groaned.