affable. But yet--"

"'But yet--' You hesitate: she would not like you to be seen, perhaps,
walking in Piccadilly with Gabriel Varney, the natural son of old Sir
Miles's librarian,--Gabriel Varney the painter; Gabriel Varney the
adventurer!"

"As long as Gabriel Varney is a man without stain on his character and
honour, my mother would only be pleased that I should know an able and
accomplished person, whatever his origin or parentage. But my mother
would be sad if she knew me intimate with a Bourbon or a Raphael, the
first in rank or the first in genius, if either prince or artist had
lost, or even sullied, his scutcheon of gentleman. In a word, she is
most sensitive as to honour and conscience; all else she disregards."

"Hem!" Varney stooped down, as if examining the polish of his boot, while
he continued carelessly: "Impossible to walk the streets and keep one's
boots out of the mire. Well--and you agree with your mother?"

"It would be strange if I did not. When I was scarcely four years old,
my poor father used to lead me through the long picture-gallery at
Laughton and say: 'Walk through life as if those brave gentlemen looked
down on you.' And," added St. John, with his ingenuous smile, "my mother
would put in her word,--'And those unstained women too, my Percival.'"

There was something noble and touching in the boy's low accents as he
said this; it gave the key to his unusual modesty and his frank,
healthful innocence of character.

The devil in Varney's lip sneered mockingly.