All the same:—­he was not sure that he liked her, and while one hour he was all restlessness to resume his task, the next it was a relief to be temporarily quit of it.  As for Lord Findon, except for a certain teasing vagueness on the business side of things, he had shown himself a good friend.  Several times since the first variegated evening had Fenwick dined with them, mostly en famille.  Lady Findon, indeed, had been away, nursing an invalid father; Madame de Pastourelles filled her place.  The old fellow would talk freely—­politics, connoisseurship, art.  Fenwick too was allowed his head, and said his say; though always surrounded and sometimes chafing under that discipline of good society which is its only or its best justification.  It flattered his vanity enormously, however, to be thus within touch of the inner circle in politics and art; for the Findons had relations and friends in all the foremost groups of both; and incidentally Fenwick, who had the grudges and some of the dreams of the democrat, was beginning to have a glimpse of the hidden springs and powers of English society—­to his no small bewilderment often!

Great luck—­he admitted—­all this—­for a nameless artist of the people, only six months in London.  He owed it to Cuningham, and believed himself grateful.  Cuningham was often at the Findons, made a point, indeed, of going.  Was it to maintain his place with them, and to keep Fenwick under observation?  Fenwick triumphantly believed that Lord Findon greatly preferred his work—­and even, by now, his conversation—­to Cuningham’s.  But he was still envious of Cuningham’s smooth tact, and agreeable, serviceable ways.

As to Welby and his place in the Findon circle, that was another matter altogether.  He came and went as he pleased, on brotherly terms with the son and the younger daughters, clearly an object of great affection to Lord Findon, and often made use of by her ladyship.  What was the degree of friendship between him and Madame de Pastourelles?—­that had been already the subject of many meditations on Fenwick’s part.

The cart deposited the school-boy in Brathay and started again for Langdale.

‘Yo couldna get at Langdale for t’ snaw lasst week,’ said the young farmer, as they turned a corner into the Skelwith Valley.  ‘T’ roads were fair choked wi’t.’

‘It’s been an early winter,’ said Fenwick.

‘Aye, and t’ Langdales get t’ brunt o’t.  It’s wild livin there, soomtimes, i’ winter.’

They began to climb the first steep hill of the old road to Langdale.  The snow lay piled on either side of the road, the rain beat down, and the trees clashed and moaned overhead.  Not a house, not a light, upon their path—­only swirling darkness, opening now and then on that high glimmer of the snow.  Fresh from London streets, where winter, even if it attack in force, is so soon tamed and conquered, Fenwick was for the first time conscious of the harsher, wilder aspects of his native land.  Poor Phoebe!  Had she been a bit lonesome in the snow and rain?