"I will take this opportunity of presenting myself," said Colville,
who was watching the little group from the rectory without appearing
to do so. He rose as he spoke and went toward the clergyman, who
was probably much younger than he looked. For he was ill-dressed
and ill-shorn, with straggling grey hair hanging to his collar. He
had a musty look, such as a book may have that is laid on a shelf in
a deserted room and never opened or read. Septimus Marvin, the
world would say, had been laid upon a shelf when he was inducted to
the spiritual cure of Farlingford. But no man is ever laid on a
shelf by Fate. He climbs up there of his own will, and lies down
beneath the dust of forgetfulness because he lacks the heart to
arise and face the business of life.

Seeing that Dormer Colville was approaching him, he came forward
with a certain scholarly ease of manner as if he had once mixed with
the best on an intellectual equality.

Colville's manners were considered perfect, especially by those who
were unable to detect a fine line said to exist between ease and too
much ease. Mr. Marvin recollected John Turner well. Ten years
earlier he had, indeed, corresponded at some length with the Paris
banker respecting a valuable engraving. Was Mr. Colville interested
in engravings? Colville confessed to a deep and abiding pleasure in
this branch of art, tempered, he admitted with a laugh, by a
colossal ignorance. He then proceeded to give the lie to his own
modesty by talking easily and well of mezzotints and etchings.

"But," he said, interrupting himself with evident reluctance, "I am
forgetting my obligations. Let me present to you my companion, an