CHAPTER V.


ROLAND YORKE.

Just without the Boundaries, in a wide, quiet street, called Close
Street, was the office of Richard Galloway, Esquire, Proctor, and
Steward to the Dean and Chapter. Excepting for this solitary office,
the street consisted of private houses, and it was one of the
approaches to the cathedral, though not the chief one. Mr. Galloway was
a bachelor; a short, stout man, shaped like a cask, with a fat, round
face, round, open, grey eyes--that always looked as if their owner was
in a state of wonder--and a little round mouth. But he was a shrewd man
and a capable; he was also, in his way, a dandy; dressed scrupulously
in the fashion, with delicate shirt fronts and snow-white wristbands;
and for the last twenty-five years, at least, had been a mark for all
the single ladies of Helstonleigh to set their caps at.

Of beauty, Mr. Galloway could boast little; but of his hair he was
moderately vain: a very good head of hair it was, and curled naturally.
But hair, let it be luxuriant enough to excite the admiration of a
whole army of coiffeurs, is, like other things in this sublunary world
of ours, subject to change; it will not last for ever; and Mr.
Galloway's, from a fine and glossy brown, turned, as years went on, to
sober grey--nay, almost to white. He did not particularly admire the
change, but he had to submit to it. Nature is stronger than we are. A
friend hinted that it might be "dyed." Mr. Galloway resented the
suggestion: anything false was abhorrent to him. When, however, after
an illness, his hair began to fall off alarmingly, he thought it no