of a gentleman.  He had found out all the right shops to go to in London, he said; and he had ordered everything necessary to social salvation at the very best tailor’s, so strictly in accordance with Philip’s instructions that he thought he should now transgress no more the sumptuary rules in that matter made and established, as long as he remained in this realm of England.  He had commanded a black cut-away coat, suitable for Sunday morning; and a curious garment called a frock-coat, buttoned tight over the chest, to be worn in the afternoon, especially in London; and a still quainter coat, made of shiny broadcloth, with strange tails behind, which was considered “respectable,” after seven P.M., for a certain restricted class of citizens—­those who paid a particular impost known as income-tax, as far as he could gather from what the tailor told him:  though the classes who really did any good in the state, the working men and so forth, seemed exempted by general consent from wearing it.  Their dress, indeed, he observed, was, strange to say, the least cared for and evidently the least costly of anybody’s.

He admired the Monteith children so unaffectedly, too, telling them how pretty and how sweet-mannered they were to their very faces, that he quite won Frida’s heart; though Robert did not like it.  Robert had evidently some deep-seated superstition about the matter; for he sent Maimie, the eldest girl, out of the room at once; she was four years old; and he took little Archie, the two-year-old, on his knee, as if to guard him from some moral or social contagion.  Then Bertram remembered how he had seen African mothers beat or pinch their children till they made them cry, to avert the evil omen, when he praised them to their faces; and he recollected, too, that most fetichistic races believe in Nemesis—­that is to say, in jealous gods, who, if they see you love a child too much, or admire it too greatly, will take it from you or do it some grievous bodily harm, such as blinding it or maiming it, in order to pay you out for thinking yourself too fortunate.  He did not doubt, therefore, but that in Scotland, which he knew by report to be a country exceptionally given over to terrible superstitions, the people still thought their sanguinary Calvinistic deity, fashioned by a race of stern John Knoxes in their own image, would do some harm to an over-praised child, “to wean them from it.”  He was glad to see, however, that Frida at least did not share this degrading and hateful belief, handed down from the most fiendish of savage conceptions.  On the contrary, she seemed delighted that Bertram should pat little Maimie on the head, and praise her sunny smile and her lovely hair “just like her mother’s.”