Cousin R arrived some years ago for a fortnight, and the fortnight, like everything about him, has been indefinitely extended. Whose cousin he is has never been established to anyone's satisfaction; each branch of the acquaintance assumes he belongs to another, and he confirms all of them by his manners, which are impeccable, and his conversation, which is agreeable and leaves no residue.
His occupation is the pressing of specimens — flowers, moths, the occasional beetle — which he mounts with a neatness that is much admired and a patience that is somewhat remarked upon. He is a guest in the fullest sense: present at every table, obliged to none, and initialled rather than named, as though Cairnholm had agreed to abbreviate a question it could not answer.