“Absolutely,” Cicely replied. “We are only modern in our frocks; and that doesn’t apply to you, Mums.”
Unfortunately for Grimshaw, Lord Wilverley happened to be present. He, at any rate, was recognised outside of his own county as an enlightened and experienced agriculturist. And being a kindly man, secure in a great position, he came to Grimshaw’s rescue. Lady Selina found herself listening to the opinions of a magnate, who might be a son-in-law. And the odds against such a desirable match diminished when she saw Cicely eagerly assimilating what Wilverley said. And, of course, Wilverley being Wilverley, could say what he pleased. Grimshaw realised, with humorous dismay, that he was cast for the part of scapegoat. On his head would fall the hardly-concealed resentment of the lady of the manor.
After dinner matters became worse. Brian wanted to talk to Wilverley about horse-breeding. Lady Selina took up her embroidery. Cicely made herself agreeable to Grimshaw, instead of improving the shining hour with the best parti in the neighbourhood. And Grimshaw, grateful to a charming girl, exerted himself to please and entertain. It seemed to be predestined that he would gain in favour with the daughter what he might lose with the mother. And who will blame him if he strove to distinguish himself with the former after some extinguishment at the hands of the latter? He could talk much better than Wilverley, and he knew it. Wilverley spoke didactically. Grimshaw had a more graceful seat astride his hobby-horse. He excelled in description, transporting Cicely to Essex and Poplar, into the deep clay ruts of the one and the mean streets of the other. Cicely could not help contrasting the two men, the fidgety irritability of Wilverley with the easy good-humour of Grimshaw, who laughed at his own failures. Wilverley grew red and heated in argument; Grimshaw became pale and cool.
Nevertheless, there was a curious incandescence about him. Under ordinary atmospheric pressure he might seem dull, sinking into odd silences and introspections, but when a right vacuum was obtained, such a vacuum as a charming young lady might present, an inquiring mind, let us say, empty of essential facts, he glowed, giving out heat and light, not a blazing, eye-blinking glare, but something softly and steadily illuminating.
“I’ve had some humiliating experiences, Miss Chandos. Till you live and work amongst the very poor, you can’t realise how difficult it is to understand them, and how much more difficult it is for them to understand us. Millions have never seen a woman like you. They live like animals; they are animals; and, of course, that’s our fault.”
“Our fault?” she gasped. But she was the more interested because he had made his theme personal.
“Oh, yes; we don’t give enough; and now, because of that, they, poor things, at the mercy of any glib, red-rag revolutionary, want to take too much. The privileged classes have never really exercised their greatest privilege.”
“And what is that, Mr. Grimshaw?” she asked in a low voice.
“Why, helping others to help themselves. Ordinary charity only hinders. Wage earners demand more than panem et circenses.”
“I don’t know what that means.”