Demos

‘You’re very unkind, Dick,’ here remarked Alice, who wore a mutinous look. ‘Why couldn’t you let us go to the theatre?’

Her brother vouchsafed no reply, but withdrew from the room, and almost immediately left the house. He walked half a mile with his eyes turned to the ground, then noticed a hansom which was passing empty, and had himself driven to Hoxton. He alighted near the Britannia Theatre, and thence made his way by foul streets to a public-house called the ‘Warwick Castle.’ Only two customers occupied the bar; the landlord stood in his shirt-sleeves, with arms crossed, musing. At the sight of Mutimer he brightened up, and extended his hand.

‘How d’you do; how d’you do, sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘Glad to see you.’

The shake of the hands was a tribute to old times, the ‘sir’ was a recognition of changed circumstances. Mr. Nicholas Dabbs, the brother of Daniel, was not a man to lose anything by failure to acknowledge social distinctions. A short time ago Daniel had expostulated with his brother on the use of ‘sir’ to Mutimer, eliciting the profound reply, ‘D’you think he’d have ‘ad that glass of whisky if I’d called him Dick?’

‘Dan home yet?’ Mutimer inquired.

‘Not been in five minutes. Come round, sir, will you? I know he wants to see you.’

A portion of the counter was raised, and Richard passed into a parlour behind the bar.

‘I’ll call him,’ said the landlord.

Daniel appeared immediately.

‘I want a bit of private talk,’ he said to his brother. ‘We’ll have this door shut, if you don’t mind.’

‘You may as well bring us a drop of something first, Nick,’ put in Richard. ‘Give the order, Dan.’

‘Wouldn’t have ‘ad it but for the “sir,”’ chuckled Nicholas to himself. ‘Never used to when he come here, unless I stood it.’

Daniel drew a chair to the table and stirred his tumbler thoughtfully, his nose over the steam.

‘We’re going to have trouble with ‘Arry,’ said Richard, who had seated himself on a sofa in a dispirited way. ‘Of course someone’s been telling him, and now the young fool says he’s going to throw up work. I suppose I shall have to take him down yonder with me.’

‘Better do so,’ assented Daniel, without much attention to the matter.

‘What is it you want to talk about, Dan?’

Mr. Dabbs had a few minutes ago performed the customary evening cleansing of his hands and face, but it had seemed unnecessary to brush his hair, which consequently stood upright upon his forehead, a wiry rampart, just as it had been thrust by the vigorously-applied towel. This, combined with an unwonted lugubriousness of visage, made Daniel’s aspect somewhat comical. He kept stirring very deliberately with his sugar-crusher.

‘Why, it’s this, Dick,’ he began at length. ‘And understand, to begin with, that I’ve got no complaint to make of nobody; it’s only things as are awk’ard. It’s this way, my boy. When you fust of all come and told me about what I may call the great transformation scene, you said, “Now it ain’t a-goin’ to make no difference, Dan,” you said. Now wait till I’ve finished; I ain’t complainin’ of nobody. Well, and I tried to ‘ope as it wouldn’t make no difference, though I ‘ad my doubts. “Come an’ see us all just as usu’l,” you said. Well, I tried to do so, and three or four weeks I come reg’lar, lookin’ in of a Sunday night. But somehow it wouldn’t work; something ‘ad got out of gear. So I stopped it off. Then comes ‘Arry a-askin’ why I made myself scarce, sayin’ as th’ old lady and the Princess missed me. So I looked in again; but it was wuss than before, I saw I’d done better to stay away. So I’ve done ever since. Y’ understand me, Dick?’

Richard was not entirely at his ease in listening. He tried to smile, but failed to smile naturally.

‘I don’t see what you found wrong,’ he returned, abruptly.

‘Why, I’m a-tellin’ you, my boy, I didn’t find nothing wrong except in myself, as you may say. What’s the good o’ beatin’ about the bush? It’s just this ‘ere, Dick, my lad. When I come to the Square, you know very well who it was as I come to see. Well, it stands to reason as I can’t go to the new ‘ouse with the same thoughts as I did to the old. Mind, I can’t say as she’d ever a’ listened to me; it’s more than likely she wouldn’t But now that’s all over, and the sooner I forget all about it the better for me. And th’ only way to forget is to keep myself to myself,—see, Dick?’

The listener drummed with his fingers on the table, still endeavouring to smile.

‘I’ve thought about all this, Dan,’ he said at length, with an air of extreme frankness. ‘In fact, I meant to have a talk with you. Of course I can’t speak for my sister, and I don’t know that I can even speak to her about it, but one thing I can say, and that is that she’ll never be encouraged by me to think herself better than her old friends.’ He gave a laugh. ‘Why, that ‘ud be a good joke for a man in my position! What am I working for, if not to do away with distinctions between capital and labour? You’ll never have my advice to keep away, Do you suppose I shall cry off with Emma Vine just because I’ve and that you know. Why, who am I going to marry myself? got more money than I used to have?’

Daniel’s eye was upon him as he said these words, an eye at once reflective and scrutinising. Richard felt it, and laughed yet more scornfully.

‘I think we know you better than that,’ responded Dabbs. ‘But it ain’t quite the same thing, you see. There’s many a man high up has married a poor girl. I don’t know how it is; perhaps because women is softer than men, and takes the polish easier. And then we know very well how it looks when a man as has no money goes after a girl as has a lot. No, no; it won’t do, Dick.’

It was said with the voice of a man who emphasises a negative in the hope of eliciting a stronger argument on the other side. But Richard allowed the negative finality in fact, if not in appearance.

‘Well, it’s for your own deciding, Dan. All I have to say is that you don’t stay away with my approval. Understand that.’

He left Daniel idly stirring the dregs of his liquor, and went off to pay another visit. This was to the familiar house in Wilton Square. There was a notice in the window that dress-making and millinery were carried on within.

Mrs. Clay (Emma’s sister Kate) opened to him. She was better dressed than in former days, but still untidy. Emma was out making purchases, but could not be many minutes. In the kitchen the third sister, Jane, was busy with her needle; at Richard’s entrance she rose from her chair with evident feebleness: her illness of the spring had lasted long, and its effects were grave. The poor girl—she closely resembled Emma in gentleness of face, but the lines of her countenance were weaker—now suffered from pronounced heart disease, and the complicated maladies which rheumatic fever so frequently leaves behind it in women. She brightened at sight of the visitor, and her eyes continued to rest on his face with quiet satisfaction.

One of Kate’s children was playing on the floor. The mother caught it up irritably, and began lamenting the necessity of washing its dirty little hands and face before packing it off to bed. In a minute or two she went up stairs to discharge these duties. Between her and Richard there was never much exchange of words.

‘How are you feeling, Jane?’ Mutimer inquired, taking a seat opposite her.

‘Better—oh, very much better! The cough hasn’t been not near so troublesome these last nights.’

‘Mind you don’t do too much work. You ought to have put your sewing aside by now.’

‘Oh, this is only a bit of my own. I’m sorry to say there isn’t very much of the other kind to do yet.’

‘Comes in slowly, does it?’ Richard asked, without appearance of much interest.

‘It’ll be better soon, I dare say. People want time, you see, to get to know of us.’

Richard’s eyes wandered.

‘Have you finished the port wine yet?’ he asked, as if to fill a gap.

‘What an idea! Why, there’s four whole bottles left, and one as I’ve only had three glasses out of.’

‘Emma was dreadfully disappointed when you didn’t come as usual,’ she said presently.

Richard nodded.

‘Have you got into your house?’ she asked timidly.

‘It isn’t quite ready yet; but I’ve been seeing about the furnishing.’

Jane dreamed upon the word. It was her habit to escape from the suffering weakness of her own life to joy in the lot which awaited her sister.

‘And Emma will have a room all to herself?’

Jane had read of ladies’ boudoirs; it was her triumph to have won a promise from Richard that Emma should have such a chamber.

‘How is it going to be furnished? Do tell me.’

Richard’s imagination was not active in the spheres of upholstery.

‘Well, I can’t yet say,’ he replied, as if with an effort to rouse himself. ‘How would you like it to be?’

Jane had ever before her mind a vague vision of bright-hued drapery, of glistening tables and chairs, of nobly patterned carpet, setting which her heart deemed fit for that priceless jewel, her dear sister. But to describe it all in words was a task beyond her. And the return of Emma herself saved her from the necessity of trying.

Hearing her enter the house, Richard went up to meet Emma, and they sat together in the sitting-room. This room was just as it had been in Mrs. Mutimer’s day, save for a few ornaments from the mantelpiece, which the old lady could not be induced to leave behind her. Here customers were to be received—when they came; a room upstairs was set apart for work.

Emma wore a slightly anxious look; it showed even through her happiness. None the less, the very perceptible change which the last few months had wrought in her was in the direction of cheerful activity; her motives were quicker, her speech had less of self-distrust, she laughed more freely, displayed more of youthful spontaneity in her whole bearing. The joy which possessed her at Richard’s coming was never touched with disappointment at his sober modes of exhibiting affection. The root of Emma’s character was steadfast faith. She did not allow herself to judge of Richard by the impulses of her own heart; those, she argued, were womanly; a man must be more independent in his strength. Of what a man ought to be she had but one criterion, Richard’s self. Her judgment on this point had been formed five or six years ago; she felt that nothing now could ever shake it. All of expressed love that he was pleased to give her she stored in the shrine of her memory; many a light word forgotten by the speaker as soon as it was uttered lived still as a part of the girl’s hourly life, but his reticences she accepted with no less devout humility. What need of repetitions? He had spoken to her the decisive word, and it was a column established for ever, a monument of that over which time had no power. Women are too apt to make their fondness a source of infinite fears; in Emma growth of love meant growth of confidence.

‘Does all go well at the works?’ was her first question. For she had made his interests her own, and was following in ardent imagination the undertaking which stamped her husband with nobility.

Richard talked on the subject for some moments; it was easier to do so than to come at once to the words he had in mind. But he worked round by degrees, fighting the way hard.

‘The house is empty at last.’

‘Is it? And you have gone to live there?’

‘Not yet. I must get some furniture in first.’

Emma kept silence; the shadows of a smile journeyed trembling from her eyes to her lips.

The question voiced itself from Richard:

‘When will you be ready to go thither?’

‘I’m afraid—I don’t think I must leave them just yet—for a little longer.’

He did not look at her. Emma was reading his face; the characters had become all at once a little puzzling; her own fault, of course, but the significance she sought was not readily discoverable.

‘Can’t they manage without you?’ he asked. He believed his tone to express annoyance: in fact, it scarcely did so.

‘I think it won’t be very long before they can,’ Emma replied; ‘we have some plain sewing to do for Mrs. Robinson at the “Queen’s Head,” and she’s promised to recommend us. I’ve just called there, and she really seems anxious to help. If Jane was stronger I shouldn’t mind so much, but she mustn’t work hard just yet, and Kate has a great deal to do with the children. Besides, Kate can’t get out of the slop sewing, and of course that won’t do for this kind of work. She’ll get the stitch very soon.’

Richard seemed to be musing.

‘You see’—she moved nearer to his side,—‘it’s only just the beginning. I’m so afraid that they wouldn’t be able to look about for work if I left them now. Jane hasn’t the strength to go and see people; and Kate—well, you know, Richard, she can’t quite suit herself to people’s fancies. I’m sure I can do so much in a few weeks; just that’ll make all the difference. The beginning’s everything, isn’t it?’

Richard’s eye travelled over her face. He was not without understanding of the nobleness which housed in that plain-clad, simple-featured woman there before him. It had shot a ray to the secret places of his heart before now; it breathed a passing summer along his veins at this present.

‘What need is there to bother?’ he said, of purpose fixing his eye steadily on hers. ‘Work ‘ll come in time, I dare say. Let them look after their house.’

Perhaps Emma detected something not wholly sincere in this suggestion. She let her eyes fall, then raised them more quickly.

‘Oh, but it’s far better, Richard; and we really have made a beginning. Jane, I’m sure, wouldn’t hear of giving it up. It’s wonderful what spirits she has. And she’d be miserable if she wasn’t trying to work—I know so well how it would be. Just a few weeks longer. She really does get much better, and she says it’s all “the business.” It gives her something to occupy her mind.’

‘Well, it’s just as you like,’ said Richard, rather absently.

‘But you do think it best, don’t you, dear?’ she urged. ‘It’s good to finish things you begin, isn’t it? I should feel rather dissatisfied with myself if I gave it up, and just when everything’s promising. I believe it’s what you really would wish me to do.’

‘All right. I’ll get the house furnished. But I can’t give you much longer.’

He continued to talk in a mechanical way for a quarter of an hour, principally of the works; then said that he had promised to be home for supper, and took a rather hasty leave. He called good-night to the sisters from the top of the kitchen stairs.

Jane’s face was full of joyous questioning as soon as her sister reappeared, but Emma disclosed nothing till they two were alone in the bed-room. To Emma it was the simplest thing in the world to put a duty before pleasure; she had no hesitation in telling her sister how matters stood. And the other accepted it as pure love.

‘I’m sure it’ll only be a week or two before we can manage for ourselves,’ Jane said. ‘Of course, people are far readier to give you work than they would be to me or Kate. But it’ll be all right when we’re once started.’

‘I shall be very sorry to leave you, dear,’ murmured Emma. ‘You’ll have to be sure and let me know if you’re not feeling well, and I shall come at once.’

‘As if you could do that!’ laughed the other. ‘Besides, it’ll be quite enough to keep me well to know you’re happy.’

‘I do hope Kate won’t be trying.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t. Why, it’s quite a long time since she had one of her worst turns. It was only the hard work and the trouble as worried her. And now that’s all over. It’s you we have to thank for it all, Em.’

‘You’ll have to come and be with me sometimes, Jane. I know there’ll always be something missing as long as you’re out of my sight. And you must see to it yourself that the sheets is always aired; Kate’s often so careless about that. You will promise me now, won’t you? I shall be dreadfully anxious every washing day, I shall indeed. You know that the least thing’ll give you a chill.’

‘Yes, I’ll be careful,’ said the other, half sadly. She was lying in her bed, and Emma sat on a chair by the side. ‘But you know it’s not much use, love. I don’t suppose as I shall live so very long. But I don’t care, as soon as I know you’re happy.’

‘Jane, I should never know happiness if I hadn’t my little sister to come and talk to. Don’t think like that, don’t for my sake, Janey dear!’

They laid their cheeks together upon the pillows.

‘He’ll be a good husband,’ Jane whispered. ‘You know that, don’t you, Emmy?’

‘No better in all this world! Why do you ask so?’

‘No—no—I didn’t mean anything. He said you mustn’t wait much longer, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did. But he’d rather see me doing what’s right. I often feel myself such a poor thing by him. I must try and show him that I do my best to follow his example. I’m ashamed almost, sometimes, to think I shall be his wife. It ought to be some one better than me.’

‘Where would he find any one better, I’d like to know? Let him come and ask me about that! There’s no man good enough for you, sister Emmy.’

Richard was talking with his sister Alice; the others had gone to bed, and the house was quiet.

‘I wasn’t at all pleased to see that man here to-night,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have been so ready to say yes when he asked you to go to the theatre. It was like his impudence!’

‘Why, what ever’s the harm, Dick? Besides, we must have some friends, and—really he looks a gentleman.’

I’ll tell you a secret,’ returned her brother, with a half-smile, half-sneer. ‘You don’t know a gentleman yet, and you’ll have to be very careful till you do.’

‘How am I to learn, then?’

‘Just wait. You’ve got enough to do with your music and your reading. Time enough for getting acquainted with gentlemen.’

‘Aren’t you going to let anybody come and see us, then?’

‘You have the old friends,’ replied Richard, raising his chin.

‘You’re thinking of Mr. Dabbs, I suppose. What did he want to see you for, Dick?’

Alice looked at him from the corner of her eye.

‘I think I’ll tell you. He says he doesn’t intend to come here again. You’ve made him feel uncomfortable.’

The girl laughed.

‘I can’t help how he feels, can I? At all events, Mr. Dabbs isn’t a gentleman, is he, now?’

‘He’s an honest man, and that’s saying a good deal, let me tell you. I rather thought you liked him.’

‘Liked him? Oh, in a way, of course. But things are different.’

‘How different?’

Alice looked up, put her head on one side, smiled her prettiest, and asked—

‘Is it true, what ‘Arry says—about the money?’

He had wanted to get at this, and was, on the whole, not sorry to hear it. Richard was studying the derivation of virtue from necessity.

‘What if it is?’ he asked.

‘Well, it makes things more different even than I thought, that’s all.’

She sprang to her feet and danced across the room, one hand bent over her head. It was not an ungraceful picture. Her brother smiled.

‘Alice, you’d better be guided by me. I know a little of the world, and I can help you where you’d make mistakes. Just keep to yourself for a little, my girl, and get on with your piano and your books. You can’t do better, believe me. Never mind whether you’ve any one to see you or not; there’s time enough. And I’ll tell you another secret. Before you can tell a gentleman when you see him, you’ll have to teach yourself to be a lady. Perhaps that isn’t quite so easy as you think.’

‘How am I to learn then?’

‘We’ll find a way before long. Get on with your playing and reading.’

Presently, as they were about to leave the room, the Princess inquired:

‘Dick, how soon are you going to be married?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ was the answer. ‘Emma wants to put it off.’

CHAPTER X

The declaration of independence so nobly delivered by his brother ‘Arry necessitated Richard’s stay in town over the following day. The matter was laid before a family council, held after breakfast in the dining-room. Richard opened the discussion with some vehemence, and appealed to his mother and Alice for support. Alice responded heartily; Mrs. Mutimer was slower in coming to utterance, but at length expressed herself in no doubtful terms.

‘If he don’t go to his work,’ she said sternly, ‘it’s either him or me’ll have to leave this house. If he wants to disgrace us all and ruin himself, he shan’t do it under my eyes.’

Was there ever a harder case? A high-spirited British youth asserts his intention of living a life of elegant leisure, and is forthwith scouted as a disgrace to the family. ‘Arry sat under the gross injustice with an air of doggish defiance.

‘I thought you said I was to go to Wanley?’ he exclaimed at length, angrily, glaring at his brother.

Richard avoided the look.

‘You’ll have to learn to behave yourself first,’ he replied. ‘If you can’t be trusted to do your duty here, you’re no good to me at Wanley.’

‘Arry would give neither yes nor no. The council broke up after formulating an ultimatum.

In the afternoon Richard had another private talk with the lad. This time he addressed himself solely to ‘Arry’s self-interest, explained to him the opportunities he would lose if he neglected to make himself a practical man. What if there was money waiting for him? The use of money was to breed money, and nowadays no man was rich who didn’t constantly increase his capital. As a great ironmaster, he would hold a position impossible for him to attain in any other way; he would employ hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men; society would recognise him. What could he expect to be if he did nothing but loaf about the streets?

This was going the right way to work. Richard found that he was making an impression, and gradually fell into a kinder tone, so that in the end he brought ‘Arry to moderately cheerful acquiescence.

‘And don’t let men like that Keene make a fool of you,’ the monitor concluded. ‘Can’t you see that fellows like him’ll hang on and make their profit out of you if you know no better than to let them? You just keep to yourself, and look after your own future.’

A suggestion that cunning was required of him flattered the youth to some purpose. He had begun to reflect that after all it might be more profitable to combine work and pleasure. He agreed to pursue the course planned for him.

So Richard returned to Wanley, carrying with him a small satisfaction and many great anxieties. Nor did he visit London again until four weeks had gone by; it was understood that the pressure of responsibilities grew daily more severe. New Wanley, as the industrial settlement in the valley was to be named, was shaping itself in accordance with the ideas of the committee with which Mutimer took counsel, and the undertaking was no small one.

In spite of Emma’s cheerful anticipations, ‘the business’ meanwhile made little progress. A graver trouble was the state of Jane’s health; the sufferer seemed wasting away. Emma devoted herself to her sister. Between her and Mutimer there was no further mention of marriage. In Emma’s mind a new term had fixed itself—that of her sister’s recovery; but there were dark moments when dread came to her that not Jane’s recovery, but something else, would set her free. In the early autumn Richard persuaded her to take the invalid to the sea-side, and to remain with her there for three weeks. Mrs. Clay during that time lived alone, and was very content to receive her future brother-in-law’s subsidy, without troubling about the work which would not come in.

Autumn had always been a peaceful and bounteous season at Wanley; then the fruit trees bent beneath their golden charge, and the air seemed rich with sweet odours. But the autumn of this year was unlike any that had visited the valley hitherto. Blight had fallen upon all produce; the crop of apples and plums was bare beyond precedent. The west wind breathing up between the hill-sides only brought smoke from newly-built chimneys; the face of the fields was already losing its purity and taking on a dun hue. Where a large orchard had flourished were two streets of small houses, glaring with new brick and slate The works were extending by degrees, and a little apart rose the walls of a large building which would contain library, reading rooms, and lecture-hall, for the use of the industrial community. New Wanley was in a fair way to claim for itself a place on the map.

The Manor was long since furnished, and Richard entertained visitors. He had provided himself with a housekeeper, as well as the three or four necessary servants, and kept a saddle-horse as well as that which drew his trap to and fro when he had occasion to go to Agworth station. His establishment was still a modest one; all things considered, it could not be deemed inconsistent with his professions. Of course, stories to the contrary got about; among his old comrades in London, thoroughgoing Socialists like Messrs. Cowes and Cullen, who perhaps thought themselves a little neglected by the great light of the Union, there passed occasionally nods and winks, which were meant to imply much. There were rumours of banqueting which went on at Wanley; the Manor was spoken of by some who had not seen it as little less than a palace—nay, it was declared by one or two of the shrewder tongued that a manservant in livery opened the door, a monstrous thing if true. Worse than this was the talk which began to spread among the Hoxton and Islington Unionists of a certain young woman in a poor position to whom Mutimer had in former days engaged himself, and whom he did not now find it convenient to marry. A few staunch friends Richard had, who made it their business stoutly to contradict the calumnies which came within their hearing, Daniel Dabbs the first of them. But even Daniel found himself before long preferring silence to speech on the subject of Emma Vine. He grew uncomfortable about it, and did not know what to think.

The first of Richard’s visitors at the Manor were Mr. and Mrs. Westlake. They came down from London one day, and stayed over till the next. Other prominent members of the Union followed, and before the end of the autumn Richard entertained some dozen of the rank and file, all together, paying their railway fares and housing them from Saturday to Monday. These men, be it noted in passing, distinguished themselves from that day onwards by unsparing detraction whenever the name of Mutimer came up in private talk, though, of course, they were the loudest in applause when platform reference to their leader demanded it. Besides the expressly invited, there was naturally no lack of visitors who presented themselves voluntarily. Among the earliest of these was Mr. Keene, the journalist. He sent in his name one Sunday morning requesting an interview on a matter of business, and on being admitted, produced a copy of the ‘Belwick Chronicle,’ which contained a highly eulogistic semi-biographic notice of Mutimer.

‘I feel I ought to apologise to you for this liberty,’ said Keene, in his flowing way, ‘and that is why I have brought the paper myself. You will observe that it is one of a seris—notable men of the day. I supply the “Chronicle” with a London letter, and give them one of these little sketches fortnightly. I knew your modesty would stand in the way if I consulted you in advance, so I can only beg pardon post delictum, as we say.’

There stood the heading in bold type, ‘MEN OF THE DAY,’ and beneath it ‘XI. Mr. Richard Mutimer.’ Mr. Keene had likewise brought in his pocket the placard of the newspaper, whereon Richard saw his name prominently displayed. The journalist stayed for luncheon.

Alfred Waltham was frequently at the Manor. Mutimer now seldom went up to town for Sunday; if necessity took him thither, he chose some week-day. On Sunday he always spent a longer or shorter time with the Walthams, frequently having dinner at their house. He hesitated at first to invite the ladies to the Manor; in his uncertainty on social usages he feared lest there might be impropriety in a bachelor giving such an invitation. He appealed to Alfred, who naturally laughed the scruple to scorn, and accordingly Mrs. and Miss Waltham were begged to honour Mr. Mutimer with their company. Mrs. Waltham reflected a little, but accepted. Adela would much rather have remained at home, but she had no choice.

By the end of September this invitation had been repeated, and the Walthams had lunched a second time at the Manor, no other guests being present. On the afternoon of the following day Mrs. Waltham and her daughter were talking together in their sitting-room, and the former led the conversation, as of late she almost invariably did when alone with her daughter, to their revolutionary friend.

‘I can’t help thinking, Adela, that in all essentials I never knew a more gentlemanly man than Mr. Mutimer. There must be something superior in his family; no doubt we were altogether mistaken in speaking of him as a mechanic.’

‘But he has told us himself that he was a mechanic,’ replied Adela, in the impatient way in which she was wont to speak on this subject.

‘Oh, that is his modesty. And not only modesty; his views lead him to pride himself on a poor origin. He was an engineer, and we know that engineers are in reality professional men. Remember old Mr. Mutimer; he was a perfect gentleman. I have no doubt the family is really a very good one. Indeed, I am all but sure that I remember the name in Hampshire; there was a Sir something Mutimer—I’m convinced of it. No one really belonging to the working class ever bore himself as Mr. Mutimer does. Haven’t you noticed the shape of his hands, my dear?’

‘I’ve only noticed that they are very large, and just what you would expect in a man who had done much rough work.’

Mrs. Waltham laughed noisily.

‘My dear child, how can you be so perverse? The shape of the fingers is perfect. Do pray notice them next time.’

‘I really cannot promise, mother, to give special attention to Mr. Mutimer’s hands.’

Mrs. Waltham glanced at the girl, who had laid down a book she was trying to read, and, with lowered eyes, seemed to be collecting herself for further utterance.

‘Why are you so prejudiced, Adela?’

‘I am not prejudiced at all. I have no interest of any kind in Mr. Mutimer.’