There was a slight affectation of foppery about Byron,—something which the plain people of the neighborhood called “soft”; and as Peternot, on his rheumatic knees before the fire, looked up through the smoke and ashes he was blowing into his face, and saw his dainty nephew stand there gloved and grinning, something of his wife’s feeling towards that nice young man came over him,—or was it only his impatience at the smoke and ashes?