All these considerations were urged by Janet in her father's defense when his title to approve, disapprove, or in any way concern himself with Dr. Roberts' choice of friends and associates was vigorously questioned by Tora Smith. Colonel Smith – he had been Colonel Barrington-Smith, but he did not see now what a man wanted with two names – was, since his difference with the authorities, a very strong Radical; on principle he approved of anything of which his friends and neighbors were likely on principle to disapprove. Among other such things, he approved of Dale Bannister's views and works, and of the Doctor's indifference to Mr. Delane's opinion. And, just as Janet was more of a Tory than her father, Tora – she had been unhappily baptized in the absurd names of Victoria Regina in the loyal days before the grievance; but nothing was allowed to survive of them which could possibly be dropped – was more Radical than her father, and she ridiculed the Squire's pretensions with an extravagance which Sir Harry Fulmer, who was calling at the Smiths' when Janet came in, thought none the less charming for being very unreasonable. Sir Harry, however, suppressed his opinion on both these points – as to its being charming, because matters had not yet reached the stage when he could declare it, and as to its being unreasonable, because he was by hereditary right the head of the Liberal party in the district, and tried honestly to live up to the position by a constant sacrifice of his dearest prejudices on the altar of progress.
"I suppose," he said in reply to an appeal from Tora, "that a man has a right to please himself in such things."
"After all papa has done for him! Besides, Sir Harry, you know a doctor ought to be particularly careful."
"What is there so dreadful about Mr. Bannister?" asked Tora. "He looks very nice."
"Have you seen him, Tora?" asked Janet eagerly.
"Yes; we met him riding on such a queer old horse. He looked as if he was going to tumble off every minute; he can't ride a bit. But he's awfully handsome."
"What's he like?"
"Oh, tall, not very broad, with beautiful eyes, and a lot of waving auburn hair; he doesn't wear it clipped like a toothbrush. And he's got a long mustache, and a straight nose, and a charming smile. Hasn't he, Sir Harry?"
"I didn't notice particularly. He's not a bad-looking chap. Looks a bit soft, though."
"Soft? why, he's a tremendous genius, papa says."
"I didn't mean that; I mean flabby and out of training, you know."
"Oh, he isn't always shooting or hunting, of course," said Tora contemptuously.
"I don't suppose," remarked Janet, "that in his position of life, – well, you know, Tora, he's of quite humble birth, – he ever had the chance."
"He's none the worse for that," said Sir Harry stoutly.
"The worse? I think he's the better. Papa is going to ask him here."
"You're quite enthusiastic, Tora."
"I love to meet new people. One sees the same faces year after year in Denshire."
Sir Harry felt that this remark was a little unkind.
"I like old friends," he said, "better than new ones."
Janet rose to go.
"We must wait and hear papa's report," she said, as she took her leave.
Tora Smith escorted her to the door, kissed her, and, returning, said, with a snap of her fingers:
"I don't care that for 'papa's report.' Jan is really too absurd."
"It's nice to see her – "
"Oh, delightful. I hate dutiful people!"
"You think just as much of your father."
"We happen to agree in our opinions, but papa always tells me to use my own judgment. Are you going to see Mr. Bannister?"
"Yes, I think so. He won't hurt me, and he may subscribe to the hunt."
"No; he may even improve you."
"Do I want it so badly, Miss Smith?"
"Yes. You're a weak-kneed man."
"Oh, I say! Look here, you must help me."
"Perhaps I will, if Mr. Bannister is not too engrossing."
"Now you're trying to draw me."
"Was I? And yet you looked pleased. Perhaps you think it a compliment."
"Isn't it one? It shows you think it worth while to – "
"It shows nothing of the kind," said Tora decisively.
Thus, for one reason or another, from one direction and another, there was converging on Littlehill a number of visitors. If your neighbor excites curiosity, it is a dull imagination that finds no plausible reason for satisfying it. Probably there was more in common than at first sight appeared between Mr. Delane's sense of duty, the Mayor's idea of official courtesy, Colonel Smith's contempt for narrowness of mind, Sir Harry Fulmer's care for the interests of the hunt, and Dr. Roberts' frank and undisguised eagerness to see and speak with Dale Bannister face to face.
CHAPTER IV.
A Quiet Sunday Afternoon
To dissolve public report into its component parts is never a light task. Analysis, as a rule, reveals three constituents: truth, embroidery, and mere falsehood; but the proportions vary infinitely. Denborough, which went to bed, to a man, at ten o'clock, or so soon after as it reached home from the public house, said that the people at Littlehill sat up very late; this was truth, at least relative truth, and that is all we can expect here. It said that they habitually danced and sang the night through; this was embroidery; they had once danced and sung the night through, when Dale had a party from London. It said that orgies – if the meaning of its nods, winks, and smiles may be summarized – went on at Littlehill; this was falsehood. Dale and his friends amused themselves, and it must be allowed that their enjoyment was not marred, but rather increased, by the knowledge that they did not command the respect of Denborough. They had no friends there. Why should they care for Denborough's approval? Denborough's approval was naught, whereas Denborough's disapproval ministered to the pleasure most of us feel in giving gentle shocks to our neighbors' sense of propriety. No doubt an electric eel enjoys itself. But, after all, if the mere truth must be told, they were mild sinners at Littlehill, the leading spirits, Dale and Arthur Angell, being indeed young men whose antinomianism found a harmless issue in ink, and whose lawlessness was best expressed in meter. A cynic once married his daughter to a professed atheist, on the ground that the man could not afford to be other than an exemplary husband and father. Poets are not trammeled so tight as that, for, as Mrs. Delane remarked, there was Byron, and perhaps one or two more; yet, for the most part, she who marries a poet has nothing worse than nerves to fear. But a little lawlessness will go a long way in the right place, – for example, lawn-tennis on Sunday in the suburbs, – and the Littlehill party extorted a gratifying meed of curiosity and frowns, which were not entirely undeserved by some of their doings, and were more than deserved by what was told of their doings.
After luncheon on Sunday, Mr. Delane had a nap, as his commendable custom was. Then he took his hat and stick and set out for Littlehill. The Grange park stretches to the outskirts of the town, and borders in part on the grounds of Littlehill, so that the Squire had a pleasant walk under the cool shade of his own immemorial elms, and enjoyed the satisfaction of inspecting his own most excellent shorthorns. Reflecting on the elms and the shorthorns, and on the house, the acres, and the family that were his, he admitted that he had been born to advantages and opportunities such as fell to the lot of a few men; and, inspired to charity by the distant church-bell sounding over the meadows, he acknowledged a corresponding duty of lenient judgment in respect of the less fortunate. Thus he arrived at Littlehill in a tolerant temper, and contented himself with an indulgent shake of the head when he saw the