“Oh, the neighbours take to him kindly,” retorted the Colonel. “He’s rich—gives good dinners and good wine. That is the kind of thing country people want. They don’t ask too many questions about a man’s pedigree when his cellar and his cook are good.”
“My brother-in-law’s pedigree is not one to be ashamed of, Colonel Marchant.”
“Of course not, my dear fellow. Honest labour, talent, patience, invention, the virtues of which Englishmen are supposed to be proud. But you don’t mean to tell me that the Hartleys date from the Heptarchy, or even came over with the Conqueror. There was a day—when I was a lad, unless my memory of social matters plays me false—when county people clung to the traditions of caste, and didn’t bow down to the golden calf quite so readily as they do now.”
Vansittart could but agree with Peggy as to her father’s demerits. He stole a glance at the child on the opposite side of the table, but she was too much absorbed in bread and jam to notice her father’s speech, or the impression he was making. Eve had a pained look. He felt very sorry for her as he watched her restless fingers smoothing out the gloves which lay on the table before her, with a movement that told of irritated nerves.
He finished his cup of tea, and rose to go; yet lingered weakly, intent on resolving certain jealous doubts of his, if it were possible.
“I see you are a stickler for blue blood, Colonel Marchant,” he said. “I conclude that is one of the reasons you like Mr. Sefton, who, as I hear in the neighbourhood, is by no means a general favourite.”
“Did you ever hear of a man worth anything who was a general favourite?” grumbled the Colonel. “Yes, I like Sefton. Sefton is a gentleman to the marrow of his bones—the son and grandson and great-grandson of gentlemen. His ancestors were gentlemen before Magna Charta. If you want to know what good blood is, you have a fine example in Sefton—a staunch friend, a bitter enemy, stand-offish to strangers, frank and free with the people he likes. He’s the only man in this part of the country that I can get on with; and I am not ashamed to confess my liking for him.”
Vansittart watched Eve’s face while her father was praising his friend. It was a very grave face, almost to pain; but there was no confusion or embarrassment in countenance or manner. She stood silent, serious, waiting for her father to say his say, and for the guest to leave. And then, without a word, she shook hands with Vansittart, who made the round of the sisters before he was solemnly escorted to the porch by Colonel Marchant.
He walked home through the fine, clear night, by hedgerows powdered with snow, through a landscape which was somewhat monotonous in its black and white, past woods and hills, above which the frosty stars shone out in almost southern brilliancy.
No, he did not believe that Eve Marchant cared for Wilfred Sefton. There had been no emotional changes from white to red in the fair face he studied, only a serious and somewhat anxious expression, as if the subject were painful to her. No, he had no rival to fear in Sefton; and yet—and yet—there was some lurking mysteriousness in their relations, some secret understanding, or why those tears? Why that confidential conversation, and those stray sentences, which seemed to mean a great deal? “I sincerely regret your disappointment.” “It was a false scent.” There must be some meaning deeper than the trivialities of everyday life in such words as these.