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No one could meet Sir Jocelyn and remain blind
to the fact that he had a pompous manner. And
when he was in the middle of the park at Folesford,
with its chain of woodlands and superabundance of
foxes and pheasants, he seemed just a little larger than
life-size. (He was pardonably proud of the concordant
profusion of those sporting incompatibles, the fox and
the pheasant.) His ancestral seat (the Porteous family
had sat there since Plantagenet times) was, if I re-
member rightly, a Gothic nucleus with Tudor and
Jacobean additions. Unwelcome, from the pictur-
esquely feudal point of view, were the rows of in-
dustrial habitations which had cropped up outside
his grandiose gateway. These, with the unsightly
colliery chimneys, were a lucrative element in his
existence, since they represented mineral royalties
for the owner of the estate. Nevertheless, his attitude
toward such plebeian upstarts was lofty and imper-
cipient: not having been introduced to them, he had
not the pleasure of their acquaintance, so to speak.
Sir Jocelyn was a short, thick-set, round-legged man
with regular features and a moustache. It would be
unfair to accuse him of looking complacent, for how
could any man look otherwise than comfortable and
well satisfied when he had inherited such an amply
endowed existence? There was hauteur in his
manner, but it was not unkindly, though it was
accentuated by his unconscious habit of punctuating
his utterances with regularly recurrent sniffs. In this
connection I am unable to resist the temptation to
reproduce a memorable remark which he once made
to me out hunting.

That winter he gave a ball for the coming-out of his
eldest daughter. (Mrs. Oakfield gave one in the same
week—an intensely exciting week for the graceful