"I thought 'Meryon's House' the worst bilge this year has given us," said a man in a braided coat.
"Or that Meryon has given us, which is saying more," put in someone else.
"I hate these romantic realists—they're worse than the old-fashioned Zola sort."
The conversation had quite deserted Reuben, who sat silent and forgotten in his corner, thinking what fools all these people were. After he had wondered what they were talking about for a quarter of an hour, he rose to go, and gave a sigh of relief when the fresh air of Iden Hill came rustling to him on the doorstep.
"He's a fine old fellow, your father, Backfield," said the man who was writing a book on Sussex commons. "I can almost forgive him for spoiling one of the best pieces of wild land in the county."
"A magnificent old face," said a middle-aged woman with red hair—"the lining of it reminds me of those interesting Italian peasants one meets—they wrinkle more beautifully than a young girl keeps her bloom. I should like to paint him."
"So should I," said the girl in the embroidered frock—"and I've been taking note of his clothes for our Earlscourt Morris Dancers."
Richard felt almost proud of his parent.
"He's certainly picturesque—and really there's a good deal of truth in what he says about having got the better of Nature. Thirty years ago I'd have sworn he could never have done it. But it's my firm conviction that he has—and made a good job of it too. He's fought like the devil, he's been hard on every man and himself into the bargain, he's worked like a slave, and never given in. The result is that he's done what I'd have thought no man could possibly do. It's really rather splendid of him."