Had she really injured the prospects of her boy by the way—­the romantic, idealist way—­in which she had brought him up.  Her Harry!—­with whom she had read poetry, and talked of heroes, into whose ears she had poured Ruskin and Carlyle from his youth up; who was the friend and comrade of all the country folk, because of a certain irrepressible interest in his kind, a certain selflessness that were his cradle gifts; who shared in his boyish way, her own amused contempt for shams and shows—­had she, after all, been training him for a mistake in the most serious step of life?

For, like it or despise it, English society was there, and he must fill his place in it.  And things are seemly and unseemly, fitting and unfitting—­as well as good and bad.  This inexperienced girl, with her prettiness, and her art, and her small world—­was it fair to her?  Is there not something in the unconscious training of birth and position, when, bon gre, mal gre, there is a big part in the world’s social business to be played?

And meanwhile, with a fraction of her mind, she went on talking “Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff.”  She did the honours of half their possessions.  Then it suddenly seemed to her that the time was long, and she led the way back once more to the drawing-room, in a rather formidable silence, of which even her cheerful companion became aware.

But as they entered the room, the door at the farther end opened again, and Tatham and Lydia emerged.

Good heavens!—­had he been proposing already?  But a glance dispelled the notion.  Lydia was laughing as they came in, and a little flushed, as though with argument.  It seemed to his mother that Harry’s look, on the other hand, was overcast.  Had the girl been trampling on him?  Impossible!  In any case, there was no denying the quiet ease, the complete self-possession, with which the “inexperienced” one moved through Harry’s domain, and took leave of Harry’s mother.  Your modern girl?—­of the intellectual sort—­quite unmoved by gewgaws!  Minx!

Harry saw the two ladies into their pony-carriage.  When he returned to his mother, it was with an absent brow.  He went to the window and stood softly whistling, with his hands in his pockets.  Lady Tatham waited a little, then went up to him, and took him by the arms—­her eyes smiling into his, without a word.

He disengaged himself, almost roughly.

“I wish I knew something about art!” he said discontentedly.  “And why should anybody want to be independent all their lives—­economically independent?”

He slowly repeated the words, evidently from another mouth, in a land of wonder.

“That’s the young woman of to-day, Harry.”

“Isn’t it better to be happy?” he broke out, and then was silent.

“Harry!—­you didn’t propose to her?”

He laughed out.

“Propose to her!  As if I dare!  I haven’t even made friends with her yet—­though I thought I had.  She talks of things I don’t understand.”