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observed Malone approvingly, as, with his fine face ruddy as the embers over which he bent, he assiduously turned the mutton chops. "You are not under
    petticoat government, like poor Sweeting, a man—whew! how the fat spits! it has burnt my hand—
    destined to be ruled by women. Now you and I, Moore—there's a fine brown one for you, and full of
    gravy—you and I will have no gray mares in our stables when we marry."
    "I don't know; I never think about it. If the gray mare is handsome and tractable, why not?"
    "The chops are done. Is the punch brewed?"
    "There is a glassful. Taste it. When Joe Scott and his minions return they shall have a share of this, provided they bring home the frames intact."
    Malone waxed very exultant over the supper. He laughed aloud at trifles, made bad jokes and applauded them himself, and, in short, grew unmeaningly noisy. His host, on the contrary, remained
    quiet as before. It is time, reader, that you should have some idea of the appearance of this same host. I must endeavour to sketch him as he sits at table.
    He is what you would probably call, at first view, rather a strange-looking man; for he is thin, dark,
    sallow, very foreign of aspect, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. It appears that he
    spends but little time at his toilet, or he would arrange it with more taste. He seems unconscious that
    his features are fine, that they have a southern symmetry, clearness, regularity in their chiselling; nor does a spectator become aware of this advantage till he has examined him well, for an anxious countenance and a hollow, somewhat haggard, outline of face disturb the idea of beauty with one of
    care. His eyes are large, and grave, and gray; their expression is intent and meditative, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial. When he parts his lips in a smile, his physiognomy
    is agreeable—not that it is frank or cheerful even then, but you feel the influence of a certain sedate
    charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a considerate, perhaps a kind nature, of feelings that may wear well at home—patient, forbearing, possibly faithful feelings. He is still young—not more than thirty; his stature is tall, his figure slender. His manner of speaking displeases. He has an
    outlandish accent, which, notwithstanding a studied carelessness of pronunciation and diction, grates
    on a British, and especially on a Yorkshire, ear.
    Mr. Moore, indeed, was but half a Briton, and scarcely that. He came of a foreign ancestry by the
    mother's side, and was himself born and partly reared on a foreign soil. A hybrid in nature, it is probable he had a hybrid's feeling on many points—patriotism for one; it is likely that he was unapt
    to attach himself to parties, to sects, even to climes and customs; it is not impossible that he had a tendency to isolate his individual person from any community amidst which his lot might temporarily
    happen to be thrown, and that he felt it to be his best wisdom to push the interests of Robert Gérard
    Moore, to the exclusion of philanthropic consideration for general interests, with which he regarded
    the said Gérard Moore as in a great measure disconnected. Trade was Mr. Moore's hereditary calling:
    the Gérards of Antwerp had been merchants for two centuries back. Once they had been wealthy merchants; but the uncertainties, the involvements, of business had come upon them; disastrous speculations had loosened by degrees the foundations of their credit. The house had stood on a tottering base for a dozen years; and at last, in the shock of the French Revolution, it had rushed down a total ruin. In its fall was involved the English and Yorkshire firm of Moore, closely connected with
    the Antwerp house, and of which one of the partners, resident in Antwerp, Robert Moore, had married
    Hortense Gérard, with the prospect of his bride inheriting her father Constantine Gérard's share in the
    business. She inherited, as we have