He was always the same grave, quiet, obstinately resolute man--true to the few friends whom he admitted to his intimacy, and sincere to a fault in the expression of his feelings among persons whom he distrusted or disliked.
As he entered the picture-gallery and paused for a moment looking at Felix on the sofa, his large, cold, steady gray eyes rested on the little man with an indifference that just verged on contempt.

Felix, on the other hand, sprang to his feet with alert politeness and greeted his friend with exuberant cordiality.
"Dear old boy! This is so good of you," he began.

"I feel it--I do assure you I feel it!" "You needn't trouble yourself to feel it," was the quietly-ungracious answer.

"Lady Lydiard brings me here.

I come to see the house--and the dog." He looked round the gallery in his gravely attentive way.