"This Mr. Harding—he is like the Rothwells, then?"
"Rothwell from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. The old people, who knew the family, will find him out as he walks through the village—see if they don't. The same haughty, sulky, sneering way with him, and just the same voice. Only every Rothwell at the Place, even to the last, had an air of being a grand seigneur, which this fellow can't very well have. Upon my word, I begin to think it was the pleasantest thing about them. I don't like a pride which is conscious of being homeless and out at elbows."
Barbara undauntedly pursued her little romance.
"You are talking about the men," she said. "Is Mr. Harding like his mother?"
"Well, she was a handsome woman," Mr. Hayes replied indifferently, "but she had the same unpleasant manner."
The girl was thrown back on an utter blankness of ideas. A woman beloved may have a dozen faults, and be the dearer for them; but she cannot possibly have an unpleasant manner. Barbara could frame no theory to fit the perplexing facts.
As they turned into the one street of Mitchelhurst, Mr. Hayes spoke musingly.
"To-morrow afternoon, Barbara, let that young man have the blue room—the large room. You know which I mean?"