by the inflexions of foreign tongues.  The hue of his plentiful and curly hair, indistinguishable to Mary and Cynthia, now stood revealed as neither black, nor red, nor auburn, nor brown, nor golden, but just, and rather surprisingly, a plain yellow, the color of a cowslip or thereabouts.  Altogether rather a rum-looking fellow!  This had been Alec Naylor’s first remark when the Rector of Sprotsfield pointed him out, as a possible fourth, at the golf club, and the rough justice of the description could not be denied.  He, like Alec, bore his scars; the little finger of his right hand was amputated down to the knuckle.

Yet, after all this description, in particularity if not otherwise worthy of a classic novelist, the thing yet remains that most struck observers.  Mr. Hector Beaumaroy had an adorable candor of manner.  He answered questions with innocent readiness and pellucid sincerity.  It would be impossible to think him guilty of a lie; ungenerous to suspect so much as a suppression of the truth.  Even Mr. Naylor, hardened by five-and-thirty years’ experience of what sailors will blandly swear to in collision cases, was struck with the open candor of his bearing.

“Yes,” he said.  “Yes, Miss Wall, that’s right, we go to town every Wednesday.  No particular reason why it should be Wednesday, but old gentlemen somehow do better—­don’t you think so?—­with method and regular habits.”

“I’m sure you know what’s best for Mr. Saffron,” said Delia.  “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”

Mr. Naylor drew a little nearer and listened.  The General had put himself into the corner, a remote corner of the room, and sat there with an uneasy and rather glowering aspect.

“Oh no, no!” answered Beaumaroy.  “A matter of weeks only.  But the dear old fellow seemed to take to me—­a friend put us in touch originally.  I seem to be able to do just what he wants.”

“I hope your friend is not really ill, not seriously?” This time the question was Mrs. Naylor’s, not Miss Delia’s.

“His health is really not so bad, but,” he gave a glance round the company, as though inviting their understanding, “he insists that he’s not the man he was.”

“Absurd!” smiled Naylor.  “Not much older than I am, is he?”

“Only just turned seventy, I believe.  But the idea’s very persistent.”

“Hypochondria!” snapped Miss Delia.

“Not altogether.  I’m afraid there is a little real heart trouble.  Dr. Irechester—­”

“Oh, with Dr. Irechester, dear Mr. Beaumaroy, you’re all right!”

Again Beaumaroy’s glance—­that glance of innocent appeal—­ranged over the company (except the General, out of its reach).  He seemed troubled and embarrassed.

“A most accomplished man, evidently, and a friend of yours, of course.  But, well, there it is, a mere fancy, of course, but unhappily my old friend doesn’t take to him.  He, he thinks that he’s rather inquisitorial.  A doctor’s duty, I suppose—­”