People are disliked more often for a bad manner than for a bad heart.  The one is their private possession—­the other they obtrude on their acquaintance.

Sir Timothy’s heart was not bad, and he cared less for being liked than for being respected.  He was the offspring of a mesalliance; and greatly over-estimating the importance in which his family was held, he imagined he would be looked down upon for this mischance, unless he kept people at a distance and in awe of him.  The idea was a foolish one, no doubt, but then Sir Timothy was not a wise man; on the contrary, his lifelong determination to keep himself loftily apart from his fellow-men had resulted in an almost extraordinary ignorance of the world he lived in—­a world which Sir Timothy regarded as a wild and misty place, peopled largely and unnecessarily with savages and foreigners, and chiefly remarkable for containing England; as England justified its existence by holding Devonshire, and more especially Barracombe.

Sir Timothy had never been sent to school, and owed such education as he possessed almost entirely to his half-sisters.  These ladies were considerably his seniors, and had in turn been brought up at Barracombe by their grandmother; whose maxims they still quoted, and whose ideas they had scarcely outgrown.  Under the circumstances, the narrowness of his outlook was perhaps hardly to be wondered at.

But the dull immovability and sense of importance which characterized him now seemed to the doctor to be almost tragically charged with the typical matter-of-fact courage of the Englishman; who displays neither fear nor emotion; and who would regard with horror the suspicion that such repression might be heroic.

“When is it to be?” said Blundell.

“To-morrow.”

“To-morrow!”

“And here,” said Sir Timothy; “Dr. Herslett objected, but I insisted.  I won’t be ill in a strange house.  I shall recover far more rapidly—­if I am to recover—­among my people, in my native air.  London stifles me.  I dislike crowds and noise.  I hate novelty.  If I am to die, I will die at home.”

“Herslett himself performs the operation, of course?”

“Yes.  He is to arrive at Brawnton to-night, and sleep there.  I shall send the carriage over for him and his assistants early to-morrow morning.  You, of course, will meet him here, and the operation is to take place at eleven o’clock.”

In his alarm lest the doctor might be moved to express sympathy, Sir
Timothy spoke with unusual severity.

Dr. Blundell understood, and was silent.

“I sent for you, of course, to let you know all this,” said Sir
Timothy, “but I wished, also, to introduce you to my cousin, John
Crewys, who came down with me.”

“The Q.C.?”

“Exactly.  I have made him my executor and trustee, and guardian of my son.”

“Jointly with Lady Mary, I presume?” said the doctor, unguardedly.