"A great estate is a great plague," muttered Mr. Beaufort; "so is a great
constituency. It is pleasanter, after all, to be in the House of Lords.
I suppose I could if I wished; but then one must rat--that's a bore. I
will consult Lilburne. Humph!"

The servant re-appeared. "Sir, he says he does belong to the county."

"Show him in!--What sort of a person?"

"A sort of gentleman, sir; that is," continued the butler, mindful of
five shillings just slipped within his palm by the stranger, "quite the
gentleman."

"More wine, then-stir up the fire."

In a few moments the visitor was ushered into the apartment. He was a
man between fifty and sixty, but still aiming at the appearance of youth.
His dress evinced military pretensions; consisting of a blue coat,
buttoned up to the chin, a black stock, loose trousers of the fashion
called Cossacks, and brass spurs. He wore a wig, of great luxuriance in
curl and rich auburn in hue; with large whiskers of the same colour
slightly tinged with grey at the roots. By the imperfect light of the
room it was not perceptible that the clothes were somewhat threadbare,
and that the boots, cracked at the side, admitted glimpses of no very
white hosiery within. Mr. Beaufort, reluctantly rising from his repose
and gladly sinking back to it, motioned to a chair, and put on a doleful
and doubtful semi-smile of welcome. The servant placed the wine and
glasses before the stranger;--the host and visitor were alone.

"So, sir," said Mr. Beaufort, languidly, "you are from ------shire; I