Mrs. Raby was a person genial, kind-hearted, and of great simplicity of manner and taste, who pleased Katherine and did not alarm her father; indeed he thought, irreverentially, to himself, “Blast me if she don’t look like an old New England Shaker sempstress,” for the châtelaine of Bedlowes wore her own grey hair in the fashion of the year ’40, had plain black gowns made by her women, and a very simple and homely manner. There was a large party assembled, of notable and interesting people, amongst whom William Massarene was as a false note in a Beethoven rendering. But society, even the best society, has grown used to such false notes, and does not mind them. There is the ring of gold in the discord.
Daddy Gwyllian, who was there—as where was he not?—said to his hostess, who was his cousin, as were ninety-nine out of every hundred persons:
“Why, bless us and save us, my dear Adela, have you been brought to recognize the new man from North Dakota? I thought you were the last Tory stronghold still left standing in the country? Do you mean you have capitulated to Harrenden House?”
Mrs. Raby’s sweet temper was a little ruffled.
“The man is a sound Tory,” she said pettishly. “If I have him here I have a very good reason for doing so.”
Daddy drew back a step and stared at her in mock amazement.
“Everybody who has him anywhere has a very good reason for doing so. But do you mean to say, Adela, that you want to get on a Company, or sell a spavined racer, or weed your gallery of dubious Holbeins or spurious Romneys at a profit, or get useful hints as to Canadian or Pacific booms?”
Mrs. Raby laughed.
“No, I don’t want to do any of those things. I want Ronald to have a chance to admire his daughter.”
Daddy laughed his inward chuckling laughter; and indulged in a prolonged whistle.