"I do—or rather I did, humbly and at a distance, for Sir Jervas is, and always will be, magnificently aloof from all and sundry—but you know this, of course?"
"On the contrary, though I have seen him frequently, I know him not in the least."
"My dear Vereker—who does?"
"My name is Peregrine!" said I, whereupon came that impulsive hand to rest lightly upon my shoulder again for a moment.
"My dear Peregrine, your uncle is unique; there never was any one quite like him unless it were Sir Maurice Vibart, the famous Buck, though your uncle, perhaps, is not quite so coldly devilish; still, he's sufficiently remarkable."
"How so?"
"Well, he has fought three duels to my knowledge, won a point-to-point steeplechase not so long ago and a fortune with it—came down at the first jump and rode with a broken arm though nobody knew until he fainted. Youthful despite years, quick of eye, hand and tongue, correct in himself and all that pertains to him, one who must be sought—even by Royalty, it seems—who might have married among the fairest and lives solitary except for his man John. Sir Jervas Vereker is—Sir Jervas."
"You seem to know my uncle rather well."
"I did—for my name besides Anthony is Vere-Manville!" Here he paused as expecting some comment but finding me silent, continued: "My father was killed with Sir John Moore, at Corunna, and I was brought up by a curmudgeonly uncle, the most preposterous unavuncular uncle that ever bullied a defenceless nephew to the dogs. Well, I grew up and was a moderately happy man despite my uncle, until I took to my bosom a friend who deceived me and a mistress who broke my heart."
"Oh," said I, not a little touched by this gloomy and romantic tale, "then this explains your—your—"