Perhaps there was never a moment in the lives of these two men when their utter
and radical dissimilarity, physically as well as in the larger ways, was more
strikingly and absolutely manifest. Like a great sea animal, huge, black-bearded,
bronzed, magnificent, but uncouth, Andrew de la Borne, in the oilskins and
overalls of a village fisherman, stood in the great bare hall in front of the open
fireplace, reckless of his drippings, at first only mildly amused by the half cynical,
half angry survey of the very elegant young man who had just descended the
splendid oak staircase, with its finely carved balustrade, black and worm-eaten,
Cecil de la Borne stared at his brother with the angry disgust of one whose sense
of all that is holiest stands outraged. Slim, of graceful though somewhat
undersized figure, he was conscious of having attained perfection in matters
which he reckoned of no small importance. His grey tweed suit fitted him like a
glove, his tie was a perfect blend between the colour of his eyes and his clothes,
his shoes were of immaculate shape and polish, his socks had been selected
with care in the Rue de la Paix. His hair was brushed until it shone with the
proper amount of polish, his nails were perfectly manicured, even his cigarette
came from the dealer whose wares were the caprice of the moment. That his
complexion was pallid and that underneath his eyes were faint blue lines, which
were certainly not the hall-marks of robust health, disturbed him not at all. These
things were correct. Health was by no means a desideratum in the set to which
he was striving to belong. He looked through his eyeglass at his brother and
"Really, Andrew," he said calmly, but with an undernote of anger trembling in his
tone, "I am surprised to see you like this! You might, I think, have had a little
more consideration. Can't you realize what a sight you are, and what a mess
