rately examined the stranger, divided between them the luxuries of the rug. The reception which Mr. Cleveland gave our hero, was cold and constrained in the extreme, but it did not appear to be purposely uncivil; and Vivian flattered himself that his manner was not unusually stiff.
"I don't know whether I have the honour of addressing the son of the author of?" said Mr. Cleveland, with a frowning countenance, which was intended to be courteous.
"I have the honour of being the son of Mr. Grey."
"Your father, Sir, is a most amiable, and able man. I had the pleasure of his acquaintance when I was in London many years ago, at a time when Mr. Vivian Grey was not entrusted, I rather imagine, with missions 'of importance."—Although Mr. Cleveland smiled when he said this, his smile was anything but a gracious one. The subdued satire of his keen eye
