‘Don’t be bitter, Edward.’
‘I am a man of the world, Celia, and not to be hoodwinked by shams and appearances.’
‘Then you’ll never be a poet,’ protested his sister. ‘A man who doesn’t believe that good deeds come from the hearts of men—a man who looks for an unworthy motive behind every generous action—such a man as that will never be a great poet. It is quite too dreadful to hear you talk, Edward. That odious London has corrupted you.’
Edward went to the dinner next day, but not with his family. He came alone, and rather late, in order to observe the effect of his entrance upon Laura Treverton. Alas, for his wounded vanity! She welcomed him with a frank smile and a friendly grasp of the hand.
‘I am so glad you have come back in time to be with us to-night,’ she said.
‘I came back on purpose for to-night,’ he answered, throwing as much tenderness as he could into a commonplace remark.
‘I think you know every one here. I need not introduce you.’
‘I know the local magnates, of course. But I dare say there are some of your husband’s swell friends who are strangers to me.’
‘There are none of my husband’s friends,’ answered Laura, ‘we are strictly local.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll find the evening rather uphill work.’