That Mr.Maurice Maule was a real gentleman no judge in such matters had ever doubted.
On a certain morning just at the end of February Mr.Maule was sitting in his library,--so-called,--eating his breakfast, at about twelve o'clock; and at his side there lay a note from his son Gerard.
Gerard had written to say that he would call on that morning, and the promised visit somewhat disturbed the father's comfort.

He was in his dressing-gown and slippers, and had his newspaper in his hand.
When his newspaper and breakfast should be finished,--as they would be certainly at the same moment,--there were in store for him two cigarettes, and perhaps some new French novel which had just reached him.

They would last him till two o'clock.

Then he would dress and saunter out in his great coat, made luxurious with furs.

He would see a picture, or perhaps some china-vase, of which news had reached him, and would talk of them as though he might be a possible buyer.
Everybody knew that he never bought anything;--but he was a man whose opinion on such matters was worth having.