"The sum of eight shillings and sixpence, a loaf of bread, and a
slice of noble cheese, now no more," said I.
"Egad!" said he, looking at me from the corners of his blue eyes,
"the argument is unanswerable, more especially the cheese part,
against which I'd say nothing, even if I could." Having remarked
which, he lay flat on his back again, staring up at the leaves, and
the calm serenity of the sky beyond, while I filled my negro-head
pipe from my paper of tobacco, and forthwith began to smoke.
And, presently, as I sat alternately watching the blue wreaths of
my pipe and the bedraggled figure extended beside me, he suddenly
rolled over on his arm, and so lay, watching me.
"On my soul!" he exclaimed at length, "it is positively marvellous."
"What is?" I inquired.
"The resemblance between you and your famous cousin."
"It would appear so," said I, shrugging my shoulders, "though,
personally, I was unaware of this fact up till now."
"Do I understand that you have never seen Sir Maurice Vibart,
never seen 'Buck' Vibart?"
"Never!" said I.
"Too much occupied--in keeping to the Narrow and Thorny, I suppose?
Your cousin's is the Broad and Flowery, with a vengeance."
"So I understand," said I.
"Nevertheless, the resemblance between you, both in face and
figure, is positively astounding! With the sole exception that
he wears hair upon his face, and is of a ruddy complexion, while
you are pale, and smooth smooth-cheeked as as a boy--"
"Or yourself!" said I.
"Ah--exactly!" he answered, and passed his fingers across his
chin tentatively, and fell again to staring lazily up into the
sky. "Do you happen to know anything about that most remarkable
species of the 'genus homo' calling themselves 'Bucks,' or
'Corinthians'?" he inquired, after a while.
"Very little," said I, "and that, only by hearsay."
"Well, up to six months ago, I was one of them, Mr. Vibart, until
Fortune, and I think now, wisely, decreed it otherwise." And
herewith, lying upon his back, looking up through the quivering
green of leaves, he told mad tales of a reckless Prince, of the
placid Brummel, of the "Dashing" Vibart, the brilliant Sheridan,
of Fox, and Grattan, and many others, whose names are now a byword
one way or the other. He recounted a story of wild prodigality,
of drunken midnight orgies, of days and nights over the cards,
of wine, women, and horses. But, lastly and very reverently, he
spoke of a woman, of her love, and faith, and deathless trust.
"Of course," he ended, "I might have starved very comfortably,
and much quicker, in London, but when my time comes, I prefer to
do my dying beneath some green hedge, or in the shelter of some
friendly rick, with the cool, clean wind upon my face. Besides--
She loved the country."