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?’