He was a great swell and there weren't many shady things he hadn't done and didn't know the ins and outs of, but his remoteness from their own lives rendered these accepted legends scarcely prejudicial.

The perfection of his clothes, and his unusual preservation of physical condition and good looks, also his habit of the so-called "week-end" continental journeys, were the points chiefly recalled by the incidental mention of his name.
If James Simpson, on his way home to Lupton Street with his friend Crawshaw, chanced to see his lordship's car standing before his door a few days after the bomb throwing in Sarajevo, he might incidentally have referred to him somewhat in this wise:-- "As we passed by Coombe House the Marquis of Coombe came out and got into his car.

There were smart leather valises and travelling things in it and a rug or so, as if he was going on some journey.

He is a fine looking man for one that's lived the life he has and reached his age.

I don't see how he's done it, myself.