"Not much of a Grey!" thought Rivers, as he observed the clean-shaven face, which was sallow, or what the English once described as olivaster, the eyes small and dark, the hair black and so long as to darkly frame the thin-featured, clean-shaven refinement of a pleasant and now smiling face.
John went across the hall to receive him, saying, "I am John Penhallow, sir.

I am sorry we did not know you were to be here to-day." "It is all right--all right.

Rather chilly ride.

Less moisture outside and more inside would have been agreeable; in fact, would be at present, if I may take the liberty." Seeing that the host did not understand him, Rivers said promptly, "I think, John, Mr.Grey is pleasantly reminding us that we should offer him some of your uncle's rye." "Of course," said John, who had not had the dimmest idea what the Maryland gentleman meant.
Mr.Grey took the whisky slowly, remarking that he knew the brand, "Peach-flavoured, sir.

Very good, does credit to Penhallow's taste.