'How long is it since you were there, Mr. Falkirk?' inquired
Mr. Kingsland's next neighbour.
The speaker was a younger man than Mr. Kingsland, and whereas that gentleman was a dandy, this one's dress was just one remove from that, and therefore faultless. About his face, so far off as the other end of the stage, there seemed nothing remarkable; it was grave, rather concise in its indications; but the voice prepared you for what a smile declared,—a nature joyous and unembittered; a spirit pure and honest and keen. Even Wych Hazel's guardian softened at his look.
'Pray, Mr. Falkirk?' said the other stranger, 'what is supposed to be the origin of the word "veil"?'
'I never heard,' said Mr. Falkirk dryly. 'Lost in the early records of civilization.'
'My dear sir!—of Barbarism!'
'Civilization has never entirely got rid of barbarism, I believe,' said Mr. Falkirk between his teeth; then out, 'By what road are you going, Rollo?'
'I should be happy to act as guide, sir. I leave the direct route.'
'Mr. Falkirk,' said Wych Hazel, 'just put your head a little this way, and see the veil of mist thrown over the top of that hill.'
Mr. Falkirk looked hastily, and resumed: 'You have lately returned, I hear, from your long foreign stay?'
'It was time.'