A valet in St.
James's Street was not a hunting comrade on the Coppermine River.

Often when Jacques was left alone he stood at the window looking out on the gay traffic, scarcely stirring; his eyes slow, brooding.

Occasionally, standing so, he would make the sacred gesture.

One who heard him swear now and then, in a calm, deliberate way,--at the cook and the porter,--would have thought the matters in strange contrast.

But his religion was a central habit, followed as mechanically as his appetite or the folding of his master's clothes.