“You must form your own opinion. She and you together might influence Lady Selina. She loves being loved. Of course she thinks Upworthy a paradise.”
At this Grimshaw spoke for the first time with vehemence. It is likely that some instinct warned him that he was being driven, against his judgment, into a false position. Pawley’s honesty appealed to him. And he liked him at sight, feeling sorry for him as the victim of autocracy.
“Your Lady Selina is swathed in cotton wool. I behold your Sanitary Inspector bowing down in the house of Chandos. I behold doles instead of decent habitations, thatch and phthisis, whitewash and eyewash.”
Pawley took this outburst humorously.
“How gently you young fellows hit.”
“I beg your pardon. You know, doctor, I have an objection to those who swagger above me socially, but I hate still more the poor devils cringing below me. The fact that lots of my fellow-countrymen aren’t fit to associate with me makes me sick. There! that’s off my chest. Let me ask a last question. Who does the dirty work in Upworthy? Who is the son of a gun? I can see your Lady Selina handing out the smiles and ha’pence. Who gives the kicks?”
“Her bailiff. Honest John Gridley—bother him!”
Then they both laughed. Grimshaw promised to talk with the lady of the manor on the morrow. Beyond that he refused to pledge himself. Naturally the talk soon wandered into the professional channel. The elder man listened for the most part, interjecting a few questions, more and more sensible that youth might succeed where he had failed, sensible, also, that having, by the luck of things, found the right man, he was likely to lose him. They parted for the night excellent friends.
III
Next day, at half-past four, Stimson—looking apostolic after Morning Church—ushered them into the drawing-room at the Manor, an immense room seldom used, filled with furniture collected by different generations, some of it good, some of it bad. The ladies of the house didn’t appear immediately, and Grimshaw was much amused by the expression on Pawley’s face as he glanced sadly at mid-Victorian atrocities, shaking his head dolefully, apparently too overcome for speech. Characteristically, Grimshaw devoted his attention to the full-length portraits, staring at Chandos chins and foreheads. He decided that they must be an obstinate, obdurate race, pleasant to deal with when things ran smoothly, honourable, kindly, and—unquestionably—quality.