John Audley raised his eyebrows. “What of it!” he repeated. “She was that woman’s daughter. When Peter married a tradesman’s daughter—married a——” He did not continue. His thoughts trickled away into silence. The matter was not worthy of his attention.
But by and by he roused himself. “You’ve ridiculous scruples,” he said. “Absurd scruples. But,” briskly, “there’s that much of good in this girl that I think she’ll put an end to them. You must brighten up, my lad, and spark it a little! You’re too grave.”
“Damn!” said Basset. “For God’s sake, don’t begin it all again. I’ve told you that I’ve not the least intention——”
“She’ll see to that if she’s what I think her,” John Audley retorted cheerfully. “If she’s her mother’s daughter! But very well, very well! We’ll change the subject. I’ve been working at the Feathers—the Prince’s Feathers.”
“Have you gone any farther?” Basset asked, forcing an interest which would have been ready enough at another time.
“I might have, but I had a visitor.”
Visitors were rare at the Gatehouse, and Basset wondered. “Who was it?” he asked.
“Bagenal the maltster from Riddsley. He came about some political rubbish. Some trouble they are having with Mottisfont. D—n Mottisfont! What do I care about him? They think he isn’t running straight—that he’s going in for corn-law repeal. And Bagenal and the other fools think that that will be the ruin of the town.”
“But Mottisfont is a Tory,” Basset objected.
“So is Peel. They are both in Bagenal’s bad books. Bagenal is sure that Peel is going back to the cotton people he came from. Spinning Jenny spinning round again!”