liquid melancholy. But my Lord Wharton complained that they looked at him
like a hound's.

Mr. Waverton was an only son, and fatherless. He had also great
possessions. From his house of Tetherdown all the fields that he could
see stretching away to the Essex border were of his inheritance. His
mother was no wiser than she should have been. She consisted spiritually
of admiration for herself, for the family into which she had married, and
the son whom she had borne. "After all," said Harry Boyce in moments of
geniality, "it's wonderful the boy has come out of it so well."

Mr. Waverton, thanks to vacillation of himself and his mother, doubt as
to what career, what manner of education, what university, could be
worthy his talents, went up to Oxford at last and (for those days) very
late. After doing nothing for another year or two, he decided (which was
also unusual for a gentleman of means in those days) that he had a genius
in pure literature. Therefore Harry was hired to decorate him with all
the elegances of Greek and Latin.

The appointment was considered a great prize for a lad so awkward as
Harry Boyce. It might well end in a luxurious competence--a stewardship,
for example, and marriage with my lady's maid. "That is, if you play your
cards well, sirrah," the Sub-Warden felt it his duty to warn Harry's
difficult temper.

"Oh, sir, I could never play cards," said Harry, for the Sub-Warden was a
master at picquet. "I am too honest."

Yet he had not fallen out with Mr. Waverton. It is probable that he was
careful to keep on good terms with his bread and butter. But he had