On the following morning the party at Rudham Park were assembled at breakfast between ten and eleven. It was understood that the Marquis was gone,—or going. The Mildmays were still there with the Baroness, and the Houghtons, and the black influx from the cathedral town. A few other new comers had arrived on the previous day. Mr. Groschut, who was sitting next to the Canon, had declared his opinion that, after all, the Marquis of Brotherton was a very affable nobleman. "He's civil enough," said the Canon, "when people do just what he wants."
"A man of his rank and position of course expects to have some deference paid to him."
"A man of his rank and position should be very careful of the rights of others, Mr. Groschut."
"I'm afraid his brother did make himself troublesome. You're one of the family, Canon, and therefore, of course, know all about it."
"I know nothing at all about it, Mr. Groschut."
"But it must be acknowledged that the Dean behaved very badly. Violence!—personal violence! And from a clergyman,—to a man of his rank!"
"You probably don't know what took place in that room. I'm sure I don't. But I'd rather trust the Dean than the Marquis any day. The Dean's a man!"
"But is he a clergyman?"
"Of course he is; and a father. If he had been very much in the wrong we should have heard more about it through the police."
"I cannot absolve a clergyman for using personal violence," said Mr. Groschut, very grandly. "He should have borne anything sooner than degrade his sacred calling." Mr. Groschut had hoped to extract from the Canon some expression adverse to the Dean, and to be able to assure himself that he had enrolled a new ally.