‘I believe that is one of the characteristics of friendship,’ said John. ‘But I lost sight of my old friends—the friends of my soldiering days, that is to say—nearly seven years ago, and I don’t care about digging them out.’
‘I wonder they don’t come to the surface of their own accord,’ said Celia. ‘And how about the friends you have made since you sold out? You can’t have existed seven years without society.’
‘I have existed quite as long as that without what you would call society.’
‘Ah, I see,’ assented Celia; ‘the people you have known are not people you would care to bring here, or to introduce to your wife.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Poor Laura!’ thought Celia, and then there followed a pause, brief but uncomfortable.
‘Shall I write the list of invitations?’ asked Laura, who was sitting at her davenport. They were in the book-room, the fresh autumnal air blowing in across beds and borders filled with September’s gaudy flowers.
‘Yes, dear, beginning, of course, with Sir Joshua and Lady Parker, and descending gradually in the social scale to——’
‘My father and mother,’ interrupted Celia, ‘if you mean to ask them. I’m sure you can’t go lower than the parson of the parish; for he’s generally the poorest man in it.’
‘And often the most beloved,’ said John Treverton.