The Hope residence was a large, square, yellow house, rather old-fashioned—“an imposing mansion” was the phrase that caught Mrs. Hope’s eye, in the Times, before she induced her husband to buy it—and it stood in extensive well-wooded grounds. Barney drove up to it in one of the open victorias which stand for hire at the station, a class of vehicle that adds to the sea-side appearance of Surbiton.
Telling the man to wait, he sprang up the steps and knocked, for there was nothing so modern as a bell at the front door. He found his mother in the drawingroom, and with her Lady Mary Fanshaw, who had driven over from her father’s country place in the Dorking direction. Lady Mary was a nice girl, rather shy, who blushed prettily when Barney came in, and had a great admiration for the young man’s hitherto unappreciated artistic talents, liking a painter better than a manufacturer. Her father, having ascertained definitely that Barney’s possession of a studio would in no way interfere with his ultimate coming into the proprietorship of the remunerative factory, made no objection to the acquaintanceship between the Hope family and his own.
“How-de-do, Lady Mary,” cried the young man, shaking hands with her. “How are you, mater?” he added to his mother, kissing her on the cheek.
“Barnard,” said the elder lady, with a touch of severity in her tone, “I did not expect to see you in Surbiton so soon. I thought you would attend to the business I spoke of.”
“It’s all been attended to, mater. I don’t let the grass grow under my feet—not that it’s a good day for grass either,” continued the young man cheerfully, warming his hands at the fire. “Beastly weather,” he remarked to Lady Mary, who assented to the terse statement.
“Yes, mater; my motto is, what is worth doing is worth doing quickly—speedily done is twice done—I think there’s a proverb to that effect, don’t you know. If there’s not, there ought to be.”
Lady Mary rose to leave the room, as mother and son had evidently something to discuss together.
“Sit down, child,” said Mrs. Hope. “It is nothing private. The men at the ‘works’ talk of going on strike. The manager is a stubborn, unyielding man, given even to browbeating his employers—”
“Bullying, I call it,” interrupted Barney, who now stood with his back to the fire, his feet well apart on the hearth-rug.
His mother went on calmly, without noticing her son’s interpolation—“So it seems to me that such a man, utterly lacking in tact, might not perhaps be mindful of the feelings of those under him. We all have our duties towards the working class, a fact many, alas! appear to forget.”