There was courtesy, but no cordiality in the reply.  If Mr. Hammond was a sensitive man, touchily conscious of his own obscurity, he must have felt that he was not wanted at Fellside—­that he was an excrescence, matter in the wrong place.

Nobody had presented the stranger to Lady Mary.  It never entered into Maulevrier’s mind to be ceremonious about his sister Molly.  She was so much a part of himself that it seemed as if anyone who knew him must needs know her.  Molly sat a little way from the window by which Mr. Hammond was standing, and looked at him doubtfully, wonderingly, with not altogether a friendly eye, as he stood with his profile turned to her, and his eyes upon the landscape.  She was inclined to be jealous of her brother’s friend, who would most likely deprive her of much of that beloved society.  Hitherto she had been Maulevrier’s chosen companion, at Fellside—­indeed, his sole companion after the dismissal of his tutor.  Now this brown, bearded stranger would usurp her privileges—­those two young men would go roaming over the hills, fishing, otter-hunting, going to distant wrestling matches and leaving her at home.  It was a hard thing, and she was prepared to detest the interloper.  Even to-night she would be a loser by his presence.  Under ordinary circumstances she would have gone to the dining-room with Maulevrier, and sat by him and waited upon him as he ate.  But she dared not intrude herself upon a meal that was to be shared with a stranger.

She looked at John Hammond critically, eager to find fault with his appearence; but unluckily for her present humour there was not much room for fault-finding.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, well-built.  His enemies would hardly deny that he was good-looking—­nay, even handsome.  The massive regular features were irreproachable.  He was more sunburnt than a gentleman ought to be, Mary thought.  She told herself that his good looks were of a vulgar quality, like those of Charles Ford, the champion wrestler, whom she saw at the sports the other day.  Why did Maulevrier pick up a companion who was evidently not of his own sphere?  Hoydenish, plain-spoken, frank and affectionate as Mary Haselden was, she knew that she belonged to a race apart, that there were circles beneath circles, below her own world, circles which hers could never touch, and she supposed Mr. Hammond to be some waif from one of those nethermost worlds—­a village doctor’s son, perhaps, or even a tradesman’s—­sent to the University by some benevolent busybody, and placed at a disadvantage ever afterwards, an unfortunate anomaly, suspended between two worlds like Mahomet’s coffin.

The butler announced that his lordship’s dinner was served.

‘Come along, Molly,’ said Maulevrier; ’come and tell me about the terriers, while I eat my dinner.’

Mary hesitated, glanced doubtfully at her grandmother, who made no sign, and then slipped out of the room, hanging fondly on her brother’s arm, and almost forgetting that there was any such person as Mr. Hammond in existence.