"Fie, Beau, sir, fie! gloves are indigestible. Restrain your appetite,
and we'll lunch together at the Clarendon."

At this moment there arrived at the same patch of greensward a pedestrian
some years older than Percival St. John,--a tall, muscular, raw-boned,
dust-covered, travel-stained pedestrian; one of your pedestrians in good
earnest,--no amateur in neat gambroon manufactured by Inkson, who leaves
his carriage behind him and walks on with his fishing-rod by choice, but
a sturdy wanderer, with thick shoes and strapless trousers, a threadbare
coat and a knapsack at his back. Yet, withal, the young man had the air
of a gentleman,--not gentleman as the word is understood in St. James's,
the gentleman of the noble and idle class, but the gentleman as the title
is accorded, by courtesy, to all to whom both education and the habit of
mixing with educated persons gives a claim to the distinction and imparts
an air of refinement. The new-comer was strongly built, at once lean and
large,--far more strongly built than Percival St. John, but without his
look of cheerful and comely health. His complexion had not the florid
hues that should have accompanied that strength of body; it was pale,
though not sickly; the expression grave, the lines deep, the face
strongly marked. By his side trotted painfully a wiry, yellowish,
footsore Scotch terrier. Beau sprang from his master's caress, cocked
his handsome head on one side, and suspended in silent halt his right
fore-paw. Percival cast over his left shoulder a careless glance at the
intruder. The last heeded neither Beau nor Percival. He slipped his
knapsack to the ground, and the Scotch terrier sank upon it, and curled
himself up into a ball. The wayfarer folded his arms tightly upon his
breast, heaved a short, unquiet sigh, and cast over the giant city, from
under deep-pent, lowering brows, a look so earnest, so searching, so full
of inexpressible, dogged, determined power, that Percival, roused out of
his gay indifference, rose and regarded him with curious interest.