He was, besides, a mighty toper; he could sit at wine until the day dawned, and pass directly from the table to the bench with a steady hand and a clear head.

Beyond the third bottle, he showed the plebeian in a larger print; the low, gross accent, the low, foul mirth, grew broader and commoner; he became less formidable, and infinitely more disgusting.

Now, the boy had inherited from Jean Rutherford a shivering delicacy, unequally mated with potential violence.

In the playing-fields, and amongst his own companions, he repaid a coarse expression with a blow; at his father's table (when the time came for him to join these revels) he turned pale and sickened in silence.

Of all the guests whom he there encountered, he had toleration for only one: David Keith Carnegie, Lord Glenalmond.