The driver, judging from Mr. Belden's faultless attire and distinguished bearing, had rated him at once as one of those high and mighty Londoners, and had expected that he would of course entrench himself on the back seat of the little turnout and, preserving a dignified silence, condescendingly allow himself to be driven about and to be very much bored into the bargain—all of which, it must be confessed, would have been more in keeping with Mr. Belden's usual manner of conducting himself. To-day, however, he had an axe to grind, and the friendly intercourse of the front seat would prove more conducive to the end in view.
“Ever been ere before?” questioned the coachman, ready to prove himself friendly with the friendly.
“I was at Eton half a term when a boy, but I didn't take to the old place, and cut and run away the first chance.”
“And 'aven't you 'ad any schoolin' since, sir?”
“Oh, yes; I tutored awhile at home—just enough to wriggle my way into Cambridge; and I studied just enough there to get my degree—no more, I can tell you. I have been one of those fellows who didn't believe in taking unnecessary trouble.”
“You look it,” said the man honestly.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Belden, thinking he was willing to face the music.
“Well, you 'ave a lazy, listless sort of look—begging your pardon, sir—like most of those men who loaf their lives away at the clubs up in London.”
Mr. Belden naturally felt irritated at the fellow's blunt honesty, but there was no sense in resenting a state of affairs which he had deliberately brought down upon himself.
“You look the perfect gentleman, all the same,” added the man; and endeavoring to extract a grain of comfort from this last remark, Mr. Belden thought best to change the subject.