Sir Wynston Berkley was a particularly gentleman-like person. He was
rather tall, and elegantly made, with gay, easy manners, and something
indefinably aristocratic in his face, which, however, was a little more
worn than his years would have strictly accounted for. But Sir Wynston
had been a roué, and, spite of the cleverest possible making up, the
ravages of excess were very traceable in the lively beau of fifty.
Perfectly well dressed, and with a manner that was ease and gaiety
itself, he was at home from the moment he entered the room. Of course,
anything like genuine cordiality was out of the question; but Mr. Marston
embraced his relative with perfect good breeding, and the baronet
appeared determined to like everybody, and be pleased with everything. He
had not been five minutes in the parlor, chatting gaily with Mr. and Mrs.
Marston and their pretty daughter, when Mademoiselle de Barras entered
the room. As she moved towards Mrs. Marston, Sir Wynston rose, and,
observing her with evident admiration, said in an undertone, inquiringly,
to Marston, who was beside him--

"And this?"

"That is Mademoiselle de Barras, my daughter's governess, and Mrs.
Marston's companion," said Marston, drily.

"Ha!" said Sir Wynston; "I thought you were but three at home just now,
and I was right. Your son is at Cambridge; I heard so from our old
friend, Jack Manbury. Jack has his boy there too. Egad, Dick, it seems
but last week that you and I were there together."

"Yes," said Marston, looking gloomily into the fire, as if he saw, in its
smoke and flicker, the phantoms of murdered time and opportunity; "but I
hate looking back, Wynston. The past is to me but a medley of ill-luck