And his eyes wandered round the dining-room, in the furniture of which he observed a comforting but discreet opulence. Mr. Farley had known the house in Miss Dwarris’ lifetime, and noticed now that a portrait of her no longer hung in its accustomed place.
“I see you have removed that excellent picture of the former occupant of this house, Miss Ley,” he said, with a graceful wave of his white and jewelled hand.
“I couldn’t bear that she should watch me eat three meals a day,” replied his hostess. “I have a vivid recollection of her dinners: she fed me on husks and acorns, like the prodigal son, and regaled me with accounts of the torment that awaited me in an after-life.”
The Dean smiled gravely. He looked upon Miss Ley with a kind of affectionate disapproval; and though often he rebuked her for the books she read or for the flippancy of her conversation, took always in good part the irony with which she met his little sermons.
“You’re very uncharitable, Polly,” he said. “Of course Eliza was a difficult person to live with, but she exacted no more from others than she exacted from herself. I always admired her strong sense of duty; it was very striking at the present time when everyone lives entirely for pleasure.”
“We may not be so virtuous as our fathers, Algernon,” answered Miss Ley, “but we’re very much easier to live with. After all, forty years ago people were positively insufferable: they spoke their minds, which is a detestable habit; their temper was abominable, and they drank more than was good for them. I always think my father was typical of his period. When he flew into a passion he called it righteous anger, and when I did anything to which he objected he suffered from—virtuous indignation. D’you know that till I was fifteen I was never allowed to taste butter, which was thought bad both for my figure and my soul? I was brought up exclusively on dripping and Jeremy Taylor. The world was a hazardous path beset with gins and snares; and at every turn and corner were immature volcanoes from which arose sulphurous fumes of hell-fire.”
“It was an age of tyranny and vapours,” said Frank. “of old gentlemen who were overbearing and young ladies who swooned.”
“I’m sure people aren’t so good as they used to be,” said Mrs. Bassett, glancing at her son, who was much engrossed in a conversation with Mrs. Castillyon.
“They never were,” answered Miss Ley.
“The perverseness of men would have made an infidel of me,” added the Dean, in his sweet grave voice, “but for the counteracting impression of Divine providence in the works of Nature.”