Colonel Pompley sat at his desk. He was in his well brushed blue coat—buttoned across his breast—his gray trowsers fitted tight to his limbs, and fastened under his boots with a link chain. He saved a great deal of money in straps. No one ever saw Colonel Pompley in dressing-gown and slippers. He and his house were alike in order—always fit to be seen—
"From morn to noon, from noon to dewy eve."
The Colonel was a short compact man, inclined to be stout—with a very red face, that seemed not only shaved, but rasped. He wore his hair cropped close, except just in front, where it formed what the hairdresser called a feather; but it seemed a feather of iron, so stiff and so strong was it. Firmness and precision were emphatically marked on the Colonel's countenance. There was a resolute strain on his features, as if he was always employed in making the two ends meet!
So he sat before his house-book, with his steel pen in his hand, and making crosses here and notes of interrogation there. "Mrs. M'Catchley's maid," said the Colonel to himself, "must be put upon rations. The tea that she drinks! Good Heavens!—tea again!"
There was a modest ring at the outer door. "Too early for a visitor!" thought the Colonel. "Perhaps it is the water rates."
The neat man-servant—never seen, beyond the offices, save in grande tenue, plushed and powdered—entered, and bowed.
"A gentleman, sir, wishes to see you."
"A gentleman," repeated the Colonel, glancing towards the clock. "Are you sure it is a gentleman?"
The man hesitated. "Why, sir, I ben't exactly sure; but he speaks like a gentleman. He do say he comes from London to see you, sir."
A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the Colonel and one of his wife's trustees touching the investment of Mrs. Pompley's fortune. It might be the trustee—nay, it must be. The trustee had talked of running down to see him.