"What sort of place is the sitting-room?"

Paul described, as well as he could, the
apartment which he called the salon, and
with the aspect of which the reader is
already acquainted. He further stated
that there was a comfortable arm-chair at
Sir John's disposal; that a screen and a
curtain had been arranged behind this chair
so as to exclude all draughts; and that a
footstool had been placed in front of it.

"How devilish weak I am!" exclaimed
Sir John, with an almost piteous expression
of face, as he essayed, with his servant's
assistance, to dress himself.

This was not the first time that he had left
his bed. He had been wrapped in a dressing-gown,
and seated in an easy chair by
the fireside in his own chamber, on several
previous occasions. But now he was to
venture into the sitting-room, have tea
with the vicar's family, and make the
acquaintance of the young ladies.

On the part of these latter, there was a
good deal of curiosity respecting their
guest. The two girls did not even know
with any accuracy what his personal
appearance might be. True, they had seen
him—if it could be called seeing—when
he was swooning, bleeding,
mud-bespattered, on the ground at their gate. But
who could judge of a gentleman's looks
under such circumstances?

When Sir John Gale stood for a moment
at the open door of the parlour leaning on
Paul's arm, and looking his first look at
the vicar's daughter and ward, this is
what their eyes beheld: a man of middle
height, slenderly made and somewhat high
shouldered, dressed with scrupulous
neatness—even with elegance—and bearing
traces in his face and his attitude of recent
severe illness.

How much of the worn aspect of his face,
and the unwholesomeness of the skin—
which looked as though it should naturally
have been ruddy and plumply filled out,
but which now hung white and flaccid over
the cheeks, and in baggy wrinkles beneath
the prominent dark eyes—how much of the
sickly whiteness of the bony hands, white
as a woman's, but knotted and ploughed
with deep lines like those of a very aged
man—how much, in brief, of the general
debility, and air of being used-up, now
perceptible in Sir John's aspect, was due to
recent suffering, and how much of all
this had belonged to it for years past, the
vicar's family could not tell. They
accepted his appearance as being the natural
appearance of a man no longer young, who
had just arisen from a bed of sickness
where his mind and body had both been
severely tried.

He had sandy hair, slightly grizzled,
carefully brushed, and so disposed as to
hide, as far as possible, a bald patch on
the crown of the head. He wore a pointed
beard, and moustaches that curved fiercely
upward. His nose was well shaped,
although rather sharp and beak-like. The
tell-tale mouth was partly concealed by
the fringe of moustache. Altogether he
might have been pronounced a handsome
man; and he was pronounced to be so by
many persons.

In the sitting-room awaiting him were
Mr. Levincourt with Maud and Veronica.
The latter wore a winter dress of rich
claret colour, relieved at the throat and
wrists by ruffles of white lace—very fine old
lace that had belonged to her mother, and
that was, in truth, a little out of place on
her plain stuff gown.

Maud was an inch or two shorter than
her companion; she had broad, finely
moulded shoulders, and a noble white
throat supporting a head whose form and
proportions were almost perfect. Her
features were irregular, and not one of them
could be called handsome, save the almond-
shaped blue eyes set rather deeply under
broad brows. Her wide mobile mouth
was not beautiful, though its sweetness,
when she spoke or smiled, was irresistible.
But, one beauty Maud Desmond possessed
which appealed to the least cultivated
appreciation: this was her hair, which was
of a rare golden hue. When the sunlight
fell on it, it shone as though each separate
hair had been drawn out of burnished
metal, and it was softer to the touch than
silk.

On these two girls, and on their
surroundings, looked, for the first time, Sir
John Gale.

The vicar hastened forward to offer his
guest the support of his arm, which the
latter gentleman accepted after a moment's
hesitation.

"I am ashamed," said Sir John, with a
frank smile, which showed a bright range
of false teeth, "ashamed and sorry to be
such a bore and a nuisance. But the truth
is, I had no idea, until I began to dress just
now, how entirely my strength was
prostrated. It seems absurd, but I am
absolutely as weak as a baby."

"We are truly rejoiced, most truly so,
to welcome you among us. Your strength
will come back, undoubtedly. It is now