“She is,” he admitted. Dilly was a round-faced, smiling damsel, with curly brown hair and expressive blue eyes—a flirt to her finger-tips. It was also true that she did lead poor Tom a life, and encouraged a smart young insurance agent, with well-turned, stockinged calves, and a free-wheel bicycle.
“I’d never put up with her,” declared Mrs. Hogben, “only for her grandmother.”
“Why her grandmother?” he questioned lazily.
“Bless your dear heart, old Jane Topham has been a miser all her life. Oh, she’s a masterpiece, she is, and lives on the scrapings of the shop; she hasn’t had a gown this ten year, but has a fine lump of money in the Brodfield Bank, and Dilly is all she’s got left, and the apple of her eye. Dilly will have a big fortune—only for that, I’d put her to the door, with her giggling and her impudence, yes I would, and that’s the middle and the two ends of it!”
When Wynyard had heard more than enough of Dilly’s doings and misdoings, and the biographies and tragedies of his predecessors (the pigs), he went over to the Drum, listened to discussions, and realised the prominent characteristics of the English rustic—reluctance to accept a new idea. Many talked as if the world had not moved for thirty years, and evinced a dull-witted contentment, a stolid refusal to look facts in the face; but others, the younger generation, gave him a new perspective—these read the papers, debated their contents, and took a keen interest in their own times.
Wynyard generally had a word with old Thunder, and played a game of chess with Pither, the organist. Captain Ramsay was established in his usual place—smoking, silent, and staring. So intent was his gaze, so insistently fixed, that Wynyard invariably arranged to sit with his back to him, but even then he seemed to feel the piercing eyes penetrating the middle of his spine!
One evening Captain Ramsay suddenly rose, and shuffled out of his corner—an usual proceeding, for he remained immovable till closing time (ten o’clock). He came straight up to where Wynyard was bending over the chess-board, considering a move, and laying a heavy hand on his shoulder, and speaking in a husky voice, said—
“I say—Wynyard—don’t you know me?”
CHAPTER XVII
LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS
At this amazing question the chauffeur started violently, looked up into the anxious, sunken eyes gazing into his own, and answered—