Colonel Fenchurch stood on his own hearthstone--that is to say, the smoking-room rug--with his back to the fire, and a cup of tea in his hand. He was a good-looking dapper little man, with a neat white moustache, a cheery voice, and an unfailing flow of talk. “I say, Doodie,” turning to a lady in a splashed habit, who was meditatively consuming buttered toast, “weren’t the roads beastly? Just look at my boots and leathers!”…
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